Archive of Our Own ^beta

The sky was beginning to darken as Stanley drove through Indiana, the familiar hum of his car engine barely audible over the howl of the wind outside. The late October air was heavy, and the clouds above were a murky grey like dirty lake water, spiralling and thick, trying to smother the last slivers of daylight. He could see a storm rolling in, creeping slowly across the sky, casting everything in long, eerie shadows. Perfect for the holiday coming up, he supposed. The trees lining the road bowed and shivered under the force of the wind, their branches shaking loose a flurry of leaves—red, orange, yellow, and brown—scattering them across the road like confetti from a parade.

Stanley had been on the road for hours, and he could feel the strain in his shoulders, the stiffness in his back, but he wasn’t ready to stop just yet. Indiana felt like a place he wasn’t supposed to return to—like he was trespassing, even though he knew he wasn"t banned yet, and that no one would know he was there but Fiddleford. But as he drove through the familiar (though he wasn’t ready to admit to himself that he had memorised them) streets, the leaves skidding along the pavement and the first hints of rain splattering on his windshield, he couldn’t bring himself to keep driving. He didn’t have a destination anyway.

He never really did.

He honestly didn’t know why he was even here.
Well…

He did know.

He wanted to see Fiddleford.
He’d missed him, and wanted to hear his voice, smell his cologne, see him.

God, he wanted it more than he’d ever admit out loud, least of all to himself. But the thought of knocking on his door so close to Halloween, knowing how much the holiday meant to him, made him feel like an inconvenience. Stanley could picture him inside, probably setting up decorations, carving pumpkins, humming along to some song on the radio, happy in a way Stanley couldn’t even begin to try to understand. The last thing he wanted was to show up like a stray dog, tired and pathetic like always, dragging the whole mood down. 

He’d be selfish.
He would end up ruining it and making it about himself.

The very last thing he wanted to do was take something Fiddleford was excited about and spoil it, to appear at his doorstep and draw all the attention toward how pitiful he was.

Instead, he pulled into a parking lot outside a half-empty strip mall, manoeuvring his car into a spot near the back, away from the streetlights that flickered and buzzed like they were about to give out. He turned off the engine, and for a moment, the silence felt oppressive, pressing in around him, around his car; like the wind which rocked it just enough for him to notice. He sighed, leaning back against the worn seat, closing his eyes.

The rain started to pick up, tapping against the windows, and Stanley listened to it, trying to let it lull him to sleep. He’d done this a thousand times before—pulled into some empty lot, found a spot to park, and curled up in the backseat or the front, wherever he could get comfortable.

Tonight felt different.
He didn’t know why.

Maybe it was the storm, or maybe it was just knowing how close he was to something he couldn’t bring himself to reach out for.

He shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t make his neck ache, tugging his jacket tighter around himself as he adjusted the seat back. The wind was louder now, whistling through the cracks, making the leaves outside scrape against the asphalt like tiny claws. Stanley squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to relax, to let the exhaustion take over.

He was almost there—almost drifting off, his mind slipping into that half-asleep state where everything felt fuzzy and distant—when the sky split open.

The thunder was deafening, a sharp, sudden crack that tore through the night like a gunshot. Stanley jolted awake, his heart pounding, his breath catching in his throat. The sound reverberated through his chest, shaking him down to his bones, and for a moment, he felt like he was ten years old again, hiding under his bed while his parents screamed at each other downstairs.

But at least then, he wasn’t alone.
At least he had someone to share that fear with, someone to help.

Someone who would protect him.

But now he was just alone.

The rain was coming down harder now, sheets of it hammering against the roof of the car, and every time the thunder cracked, he flinched, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned white. He could feel his pulse racing, faster than it should have been, and he didn’t like how it made him feel weak, small, like a kid afraid of the dark.

It was stupid.

It was just thunder, just noise, but he couldn’t shake the fear clawing at the back of his mind, the way it made everything around him feel like it was closing in. He tried to tell himself it would pass, that it was just a storm, and soon it’d be over. But another flash of lightning lit up the parking lot, casting jagged shadows across the pavement, and then the thunder came again, louder, closer, like it was right above him.

Stanley couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t just sit there, waiting for it to end.
He’d done that too many times in his life before, just waiting for something horrible to pass. He couldn’t do it again.

Without really thinking, he turned the key in the ignition, the engine sputtering to life, and pulled out of the parking lot, the tires skidding a little on the wet asphalt as he turned onto the main road.

The drive to Fiddleford’s place was a blur, the streets slick with rain, the headlights cutting through the darkness in pale, shaky beams. Stanley barely remembered the turns, just followed the route he knew by heart, even if he hadn’t taken it in months.

He sat there, parked for a moment, staring at the porch light glowing softly through the rain, trying to talk himself out of it. He could still drive away. He could find another car park, try to sleep again, pretend he wasn’t here. But then the thunder rolled again, rattling the car windows, shaking the ground, and before he knew it, he was out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him and stumbling up the steps, his legs feeling like they might give out at any moment.

The rain was freezing , soaking through his jacket, his jeans, making his skin prickle and his teeth chatter, but he hardly noticed. All he could focus on was the sound of his fist knocking against the wood, the way it echoed, louder than he wanted it to be.

For a second after, he thought about running, about getting back in the car and driving off before Fiddleford could open the door and see him like this. Before he could pity him, treat him like the charity case he knew he was.

But then the door creaked open, and there he was—Fiddleford, standing there in some ridiculously patterned sweater, his eyes widening in surprise, his mouth parting like he was about to say something but couldn’t find the words.

“Stan?” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, the shock in it almost making Stanley laugh, even as his chest constricted. “What on earth—”

“Hey,” Stanley managed, his voice rough, unsteady. He was shaking, he realised—his hands, his legs, everything —and he hated how obvious it was, how he couldn’t hide it no matter how hard he tried. “I, uh… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Before he could finish, another crack of thunder tore through the air, and Stanley flinched, hard, his breath hitching. He didn’t want to. He desperately didn’t want to, but he couldn’t help the reaction he had.

He could feel his face beginning to burn with a horrible embarrassment as he opened his eyes again, meeting Fiddleford’s gaze. The man’s expression had softened, the concern there so clear it was painful (at least to Stanley’s waning pride), and he reached out, grabbing Stan’s arm and gently pulling him inside, closing the door behind them.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice soft. “Let’s get you outta this rain, yeah?”

Inside Fiddleford’s house, the air always smelled faintly of woodsmoke and something sweet, like cinnamon or baked apples, and the contrast to the cold, wet night outside made Stan’s head swim. It was always like this, always like magic when he walked into the house.

He let Fiddleford guide him a few steps forward, grateful to be out of the storm.

“Oh, Lord, you look like a drowned rat, bless your heart,” The man said, looking him over.

Stanley barely had time to get his bearings and respond to that before Fiddleford was bustling around him, pulling a thick, soft towel from a nearby drawer and wrapping it snugly around his shoulders. “C’mon, let’s get ya warmed up,” Fiddleford said, gently guiding him into the kitchen. Stan wanted to protest, to say he was fine, that he didn’t need anything, but the words stuck in his throat. He felt like an idiot, standing there dripping all over Fiddleford’s floor, his clothes clinging to him like a second skin.

Stanley stumbled a little, his legs stiff and unsteady, but despite the way he felt, he let himself be led, feeling like a rag doll being moved around. Fiddleford eased him onto a wooden stool by the stove, and Stanley sank down, the exhaustion hitting him hard now that he was out of the storm.

The kitchen was warm and cosy, even in the dim stove light, the walls lined with wooden cabinets and shelves cluttered with jars, mugs, and odd little knickknacks. Fiddleford knelt down and started to work on lighting a fire in the stove, striking a match and carefully feeding it to the kindling inside. “This’ll warm ya up real quick,” he said, his voice cheerful but gentle, like he was trying to coax Stanley out of his shell. “Ain’t nothin’ worse than bein’ soaked to the bone in a storm like that.”

Stanley just nodded, gripping the edges of the towel tightly, still shivering despite the warmth beginning to seep through. His hair dripped water onto the floor, and Fiddleford glanced up, frowning slightly. “Yer drippin’ all over, pumpkin,” he said, his tone nothing but affectionate. “Lemme dry ya off a bit.”

Before Stanley could protest, Fiddleford stood up and started rubbing a towel over Stanley’s wet hair, his touch firm but careful, like he was handling something fragile. Stanley tensed at first, feeling awkward and a little embarrassed, but Fiddleford kept talking, his voice light and soothing. “I’m glad you came by, Stan. Y’haven’t called in a bit, an’ your last postcard was a month ago, an’ from Texas of all places. Was really startin’ to worry I wouldn’t see ya this weekend. Couldn’t imagine spendin’ Halloween without ya, y’know?”

Stanley tried to smile, but it felt weak, forced. “Didn’t mean to bother you,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire. “Just… needed to get out of the rain.”

Fiddleford’s hands paused for a moment, and then he kept drying Stanley’s hair, a little gentler this time. “You ain’t a bother,” he said softly. “Ain’t never one.” He didn’t push, didn’t ask why Stanley had shown up so late, soaked and shivering. He just kept drying him off, humming quietly under his breath, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

When Fiddleford finally stepped back, Stanley felt a little warmer, a bit more dry, comfortable in a way, but his thoughts were still churning, tangled up with guilt and self-doubt. He’d driven all the way from… well, he didn’t even know where anymore, just driving until he’d ended up in Indiana again, too tired and scared to keep going. And now he was here, intruding on Fiddleford’s evening, disrupting whatever plans he might’ve had. Just because of some stupid thunderstorm that scared him like a little kid.

He hated this.

Hated how small and useless he seemed, sitting there like a wet dog, needing someone to take care of him. He hated that Fiddleford was being so kind about it, too, like he didn’t see right through Stanley’s pathetic excuses. And worst of all, he hated that he needed this—needed Fiddleford’s warmth, his patience, the way he made everything feel okay.

He hated how much he was starting to get used to him.
Hated how much he needed him now.

This… relationship was always on the precipice of becoming dangerous to both of them, all because of him. He couldn’t get close to someone like this, and he knew it. But he was stupid, he knew that too.

And he let himself get close.
And now, sitting there, his heart slamming against its confines hard enough to bruise, he had fallen into something he was getting too attached to. 

Fiddleford disappeared down the hallway with a soft sound of remembrance, leaving Stanley alone with his thoughts for a few minutes, and his mind kept circling back to the same terrifying realisation: he might have messed up more than he thought he could.

He didn’t know when it had happened, didn’t know how to stop it.

He was in love.
He didn’t want to be, knowing it was just going to end badly, but the thought of losing this, losing Fiddleford , made him sick to his empty stomach.

The house was quiet save for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the steady patter of rain against the windows. Stanley glanced around, trying to focus on something, anything , to keep his mind from spiralling. He could see little touches of Halloween decorations scattered around the house from where he sat—paper bats hanging from the ceiling in the dining room, a small ceramic jack-o’-lantern on the top of the bookshelves in the living room, strings of orange and purple lights framing the windows. It was warm, inviting like it always was, and like always, Stanley felt like he was intruding.

When Fiddleford came back, he was carrying a set of clothes—a red hand-knit sweater with a high collar and a pair of black pyjama pants. “Here ya go,” he said, holding them out. “Uh… just some old clothes of mine. The sweater’s a bit big—I messed up the size when I was knittin’ it—but it’ll keep ya warm.”

Stanley took the clothes, trying not to let it show how much his hands were shaking. “Thanks,” he said, his voice rough. “I, uh… I’ll go change.”

In the bathroom, Stanley stripped off his soaked clothes, wincing as the cold air hit his skin. He could see himself in the mirror—his hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes red and tired, the shadows under them darker than usual. He looked worse than he’d thought, and for a moment, he had to lean against the sink, his head bowed, his eyes squeezed shut.

What was he doing?
Other than embarrassing himself and being annoying?

He came here, hoping for… what, exactly? Comfort? Safety? Someone to tell him everything would be okay, even when he knew it wouldn’t? It felt stupid now, desperate, and the fear from the storm was starting to give way to shame, curling tight in his stomach.

He was dumb.
This was dumb.

He couldn’t believe he was here because he got scared .
He was afraid of some stupid weather, and he probably ruined the other man’s night. What if he’d had plans? They were both grown men, Stanley should’ve been stronger than this.

God, he thought, what an embarrassment he’d be to his father.

His father.

Stan looked down at his hands, glancing over the green and yellow bruises on his cracked knuckles, looking at the ring finger on his left hand, at the way the flesh grew over bone after the tip was cut off in a cigar cutter, the nail completely gone.

He stared blankly for a moment, flexing his fingers open and closed into a fist.

“Some son you turned out to be.” He muttered.
His father would fucking hate him.

A soft laugh left his throat, involuntarily.
He shook his head, sighing. Who was he kidding?

He knew his father already did.
He always had.

Stanley stood there, thinking until his legs felt as if they were turning blue, numb from the cold, and finally he slipped into the sweater and pants. The sweater was warm, soft against his skin, and it fit him perfectly. He caught another glimpse of himself in the mirror.

He looked better. Red was his colour, he supposed.
Knitted wool hugging his shoulders, the high collar brushing against his jaw, and he couldn’t help but smile a little, even though it hurt.

Fiddleford had lied to him.

Stan knew there was no way this was an accident. He had made this sweater for him, and the pants were brand new, probably bought just for him, too.

That realisation made Stanley feel worse. He’d shown up unannounced, soaked and scared, and Fiddleford had been nothing but kind, and Stanley couldn’t even manage to be honest about why he was here. He felt like a burden, a grifter taking advantage of someone’s kindness, and it was exhausting . He was so tired of feeling like this, so tired of feeling like he didn’t deserve any of it.

He sighed, brushing his hair back.

Stan turned the light off and left the bathroom, glancing at the dozens of family photos lining the hallway into the living room. When he stepped back into the kitchen, Fiddleford was waiting with a steaming mug of cider and a plate with a thick slice of pumpkin pie, slathered in whipped topping. “There ya go, sugar,” he said with a grin, handing the mug to Stanley. “A little somethin’ to warm ya up. And I ain’t takin’ no for an answer. Ya look like ya ain’t eaten all day.”

Stan thought he might explode.
He felt horrified in a way. How?

Why?

He wanted to question, to interrogate him.
How could someone be so kind at all , but the smell of the cider was too tempting, and his stomach growled, betraying him. He took a sip, the warmth spreading through his chest, and Fiddleford beamed at him, like he’d just won a prize at a carnival. “There we go,” he said, ruffling Stanley’s still damp hair. “Ain’t nothin’ better than some cider and pie on a stormy night.”

Stanley couldn’t help but smile a little, even though it felt wobbly. “Thanks, Fidds,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

He felt horrible and selfish.
What if some random grifter just knocked on his door and asked to be given food and clothing and a place to sleep? He’d be more annoyed than anything.

But at the same time, he couldn’t deny how nice it felt to see Fiddleford again, how much he’d needed it.

Fiddleford leaned in and kissed Stanley’s cheek, his lips warm and soft. “I’m just glad yer here,” he said, his voice quiet but sincere. “Really, I am. How long ya plannin’ on stayin’? You’ll be here for Halloween—well, tomorrow, won’t ya?”

Stanley blinked, caught off guard by the affection, but he managed a small nod as he ate. “Yeah… I can stay for Halloween,” he said, his heart shuddering painfully at how hopeful Fiddleford looked.

“Good,” Fiddleford said, running his fingers through Stanley’s hair. “Wouldn’t be the same without ya, pumpkin.”

The thunder rumbled again, softer this time, distant, and Stanley tensed, the sound still enough to make his pulse quicken. Fiddleford glanced over, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Storm’s supposed to blow over by mornin’,” he said, like he was offering reassurance. “But I reckon it’s got a bit of a fight left in it tonight.”

Stanley forced a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Sounds like it.”

Fiddleford didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at him, and Stanley could feel the weight of it, like Fiddleford was trying to read everything he wasn’t saying.

Stan looked away, back up at the bats hanging in the dining room.
He could still feel Fiddleford’s eyes on him for a while longer before he heard the man clear his throat.

“Y’know,” he began. “I was savin’ these for tomorrow, but since yer here… how’d ya feel about carvin’ some pumpkins tonight?”

Stanley blinked, caught off guard. “Now?”

“Sure, once you’re done eatin’, why not?” Fiddleford said. “Ain’t nothin’ else to do, and I reckon it’ll be more fun with you helpin’ me out. And besides…” He hesitated, his expression softening a little as he leaned in. “It’d be nice. To have some company.”

Stanley never knew what to say, what to do, didn’t know how to express the sudden, overwhelming gratitude he felt. So he just nodded, a real smile tugging at his lips for the first time that night, and said, “Yeah. Yeah, okay. That sounds fun.”

Fiddleford’s grin widened as he fetched a couple of carving knives from a drawer, setting them on the dining table next to the pumpkins. “Alright, now, don’t go slicin’ your fingers off, Stan,” he joked, but there was a hint of genuine concern in his voice as he handed one of the knives to Stanley. “These things can be tricky if ya don’t know what yer doin’.”

“You’re acting like I don’t know how to handle a knife.”

Fiddleford moved to respond but paused.
“Fair point,” he smiled faintly. “However you still ain’t told me how you lost the tip of your finger, so how am I supposed to know?” He joked.

Stan paused, glancing away.
“Yeah, yeah. You really wanna know?”

Fiddleford looked back at him.
“I mean, if yer willing to tell me.” He said.

“You sure?”

The man nodded.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes!”

“I lost it while carving a pumpkin.” Stan burst out laughing, and Fiddleford pushed at his arm.

“Oh, now shut up!” He laughed. “Carve your pumpkin an’ never tell me another story again, please.” Fiddleford rolled his eyes.

Stanley chuckled and took the knife, turning it over in his hands, and for a moment, he just stared at the pumpkin in front of him. The smooth, orange skin was unblemished, still glistening a bit from being washed. It smelled faintly of earth and autumn, and there was something oddly comforting about it, though he hardly knew why. He glanced up at Fiddleford, who was already cutting the top off his pumpkin, humming quietly to himself, and felt a small warmth bloom in his chest. Fiddleford’s presence was always a steadying hand, even when Stanley’s mind was a mess of tangled thoughts.

“Y’know, I haven’t done this since I was a kid,” Stanley said, trying to keep his tone light as he made the first cut, the knife sinking into the pumpkin’s flesh with a soft crunch. “Back when I cut my finger off–”

“Stanley!”

He laughed, shaking his head.
“Nah, nah, but seriously. Back when I was a kid, back when… well, back home.” He hesitated, his mouth suddenly dry, but he pushed through, trying not to let the memories drag him away. “We’d do this every Halloween, but it was always kind of a mess. Didn’t usually end with the pumpkins lookin’ like much.”

Fiddleford glanced over at him, smiling. “Yeah? Bet y’all had a lot a’fun.” 

Stanley’s knife wavered for a moment, but he managed a smile. “Yeah… I guess we did. My… uh, my brother, he was the one who really got into it. Loved Halloween back then. Always had these crazy ideas for what to carve. And I was usually the one carving it so I’d just end up tryin’ to keep up. One year we tried to have a competition to see who could carve a pumpkin the fastest but once our mom found out she got mad at us and we weren’t allowed to do that anymore.” He felt his throat trying to close up, but the words kept slipping out before he could stop them. “My brother was always good at stuff like that, y’know? Made everything seem fun.”

Fiddleford’s hands paused, just for a moment, and then he went back to scooping out the guts of his pumpkin, tossing the seeds and stringy insides into a bowl. “Sounds like he’s quite a guy,” he said, his tone light but warm. “Bet he’d be happy to find ya carvin’ pumpkins now, huh? Like old times?”

Stanley’s smile faltered, and he quickly looked down at the pumpkin, focusing on cutting a neat circle around the top. A soft scoff left his mouth, but he hid it by clearing his throat. “Haven’t seen him in a while, so… hard to say.”

The room fell into a quiet, just the sound of knives scraping against pumpkin flesh and the occasional rattle of seeds falling into the bowl. Fiddleford didn’t press him, and Stanley was grateful for it, but he could still feel that strange pressure in his chest, like he was standing at the edge of something he didn’t know how to deal with, like he couldn’t exactly breathe.

“So, back at home,” Fiddleford said, breaking the silence as he set his pumpkin lid aside and continued cleaning out the inside, “did y’all go all out for Halloween? Dress up, trick-or-treat, the whole nine yards?”

Stanley huffed out a laugh, a little surprised at the question. “Yeah, we did,” he said, feeling the tension ease just a bit. “I remember my mom made this uh,” he paused, trying to remember the word for it. “Scrapbook. She’d take pictures of us in our costumes every year and put it in there. We— me and my brother— were always matching with costumes. It was… fun.” He hesitated, then added, “Never got much candy myself, though. When I got a bit older, I usually ended up bein’ grounded on Halloween because of something or other I’d done.”

The corners of Fiddleford’s eyes crinkled with amusement. “Oh, you poor thing,” he smiled. He carefully scooped out the last of his pumpkin’s guts, setting the bowl aside. “Sounds like ya made a pretty good team, you an’ your brother.”

Stanley’s hands stilled for a moment. He exhaled slowly, blinking.
“... Yeah,” he said softly. “We did.”

He tried to blink the forming tears from his eyes, to ignore and suppress the awful gnawing in his limbs.
He sniffled, wiping at his nose as he shook his head, focusing on the pumpkin carving again.

“I… I apologise for bringin’ it up.” Fiddleford said softly.

“What?”

“I didn’t know it was a sore subject,” the man said, his eyes downturned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dampen the mood.”

Stanley flushed, shaking his head.
“No, no!” He panicked. “It’s okay, really! You didn’t do anything, I’m sorry if I was acting weird.”

Fiddleford nodded, smiling again.
“You sure?”

Stan returned the nod.
“Positive.”

They went back to what they were doing, the room feeling a bit warmer now, the fire crackling softly in the stove in the kitchen, and the scent of pumpkin mingling with the lingering sweetness of cider. Stanley glanced up, catching Fiddleford’s gaze for a second before he looked back down, his cheeks burning. Fiddleford was so easy to talk to, even when Stanley didn’t actually want to. It was a blessing and a curse, he supposed.

He was almost done with the face he was carving—something simple, with a crooked grin and mismatched eyes—when Fiddleford spoke up again.

“Y’know, Stan,” he said, his voice soft but clear, “I’m glad you"re here. Really, I am.”

Stanley glanced over at Fiddleford, who was focused on his pumpkin, carefully carving out a neat, rounded mouth. “Yeah?” Stanley said, trying to sound like he wasn’t about to cry. “Guess I just got lucky, showin’ up when I did.”

Fiddleford’s smile was small, but genuine. “Or maybe it ain’t luck at all,” he said, looking up at him. “Maybe it was just… supposed to happen.”

Stanley wasn’t able to say anything, his heart slamming in his chest. He just looked down at his pumpkin, his hands suddenly trembling, and tried to breathe. He was so tired of feeling like he was barely holding himself together, so tired of pretending he didn’t need this—need Fiddleford, and the way he made everything feel a little less lonely, a little less cold.

“I’m stayin’ the night,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “And for Halloween, if… if that’s okay with you.”

Fiddleford’s eyes lit up, and he reached out, gently squeezing Stanley’s arm. “Of course it is,” he said. “There ain’t nothin’ I’d want more.”

Stanley managed a smile, and it didn’t feel as forced as usual. “Guess we’ll have to make these pumpkins real scary, then,” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

Fiddleford laughed, the sound bright and clear, and it made Stanley’s heart feel a little less heavy. “Scary, huh? Well, I’ll leave that part to you. I’m more of a ‘cute and friendly’ kinda guy when it comes to carvin’.”

Stanley just shook his head.
He wasn’t sure how long this feeling would last, that nagging pit of doom returning to haunt a perfectly nice moment.

He ignored it.

“Cute and friendly?” Stan asked softly, looking up at Fiddleford. “Oh, so like you?”

They both froze at that, their cheeks turning red. Fiddleford stammered out a reply that sounded like gibberish, and they both started laughing.

“You’re so…” Fiddleford trailed off as he shook his head, smiling. “An’ anyways, no, it ain’t like me. It’s more like you.”

Stan grinned, pushing at him gently with his elbow. “Oh please.” He rolled his eyes.

Eventually, they were done, the air filled with the earthy, sweet smell of pumpkin and the lingering spice of cider.

The room was warm and dim, the only light coming from the candles inside the two carved pumpkins, their faces flickering gently against the table. The rest of the house was quiet, save for the faint crackle of the fire still glowing in the stove. Stanley watched Fiddleford’s hands as he wiped down the table, clearing away the stray bits of pumpkin pulp and seeds that had been scattered everywhere while they were carving.

Stan leaned back a bit, sighing softly as he looked over the jack-’o-lanterns. 

“You’ve got somethin’ there,” Fiddleford said.

“Hm?” Stanley looked back at him to find him vaguely gesturing to a part of Stanley"s left cheek. He raised an eyebrow, wiping at his face and clearly missing the spot entirely as he only found Fiddleford’s soft laughter in return. “No, not there. Here, lemme—” He leaned over, swiping his thumb across Stanley’s cheek to get it whatever it was, and the touch lingered for just a second longer than necessary.

They made eye contact, Fiddleford’s blue eyes flickering a soft green in the orange light. Stan couldn’t help the way his heart skipped a beat, the way his hands trembled slightly as he leaned in without thinking.

“Well,” Fiddleford said after a moment, pulling away and stretching his arms over his head, “I reckon we did a fine job, don’t you think?”

Stan’s entire face and body burned, and he nodded, looking away as Fiddleford turned and walked into the kitchen. “Y-Yeah, I think we did.” He muttered, his voice weak for a moment before he cleared his throat. “Well, I did, at least.”

Fiddleford laughed as he looked through the cabinet. He returned a moment later with a glass bottle, its contents a deep amber, and two chipped, mismatched glasses. He set them down on the table, giving Stanley a small smile. “Figured we could—we could use a little somethin’ to celebrate, y’know?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve been holdin’ out on me,” Stanley said, an eyebrow raised as he cleared his throat again. His pulse was still hammering from earlier, from how he’d embarrassed himself. “Uh, what is that, moonshine?” He asked, scratching the side of his nose.

Fiddleford nudged him with his elbow. “Oh, you think you’re funny, huh?”

Stan grinned, laughing.
“I am! It’s like, the only thing I’m good at.”

Fiddleford glanced at him, pausing.
Stan hadn’t meant to say that.

He nervously tugged at his earring, trying to ignore the swirling feeling in his stomach. “Well, um…” He began gesturing to the now uncorked bottle. “Well, what is it, anyway?” 

Fiddleford paused, pouring a generous amount into each glass. The liquid sloshed thickly, and the familiar, sharp scent of alcohol filled the air. “Uh… nothin’.”

Stanley raised an eyebrow, but he was already reaching for the glass. “Nothin?” He repeated. “Damn, I didn’t know air could have this much alcohol in it.” He joked.

They laughed softly, but Stan nudged him.
“Well?”

Fiddleford paused, his lips pressed together into a thin line.
“It’s um…” He hesitated. “It’s apple moonshi—” He barely got the whole word out before Stan started cackling.

“I fuckin’ knew it!” He laughed, lifting the drink, taking a sip. “Not bad,” he said, smirking, “I mean, I’ve had stronger, but y’know.”

Fiddleford laughed, a low, pleasant sound that made Stanley’s stomach flip. “Oh, I bet.” He took a sip of his own, savouring it, and when he lowered the glass, there was a little more colour in his cheeks.

Fiddleford raised his glass.
“To pumpkin carvin’ and unexpected visits.”

Stanley clinked his cup against Fiddleford’s, the dull sound of glass meeting glass hanging in the air for a moment. “And to not gettin’ struck by lightning,” he added, before taking another sip.

“Did you make it yourself?” Stan asked.

Fiddleford shook his head. “No, no, a friend of mine did. Sent it to me a while back as a birthday gift for my 21st.”

Stan nodded, taking another sip.

Fiddleford paused.
“Now, let’s see—who’s got the better pumpkin, huh?” He gestured to the two orange faces staring back at them, and Stanley let out a low, amused snort.

“Oh, please,” Stanley said, leaning forward to poke at Fiddleford’s pumpkin. “Yours looks like it’s tryin’ too hard to be cute. Mine’s got personality.”

“Personality?” Fiddleford scoffed, but he was grinning. “Looks more like it’s had a run-in with a wood chipper.” He took another sip, his eyes glittering over the rim of his glass. “But I’ll give ya points for effort.”

“Your pumpkin’s got a lazy eye!” Stanley said, exasperated, gesturing with an open palm at Fiddleford’s creation. “Like it’s tryin’ to scare people, but it’s not sure where to look.”

“Oh, hush, you,” Fiddleford said, laughing. He took another drink, then set his glass down before refilling it. The alcohol made everything feel a little softer, a little lighter, and soon they were both leaning over the table, cheeks flushed, voices warm and relaxed.

But as the bottle slowly emptied, the conversation began to drift. Fiddleford was the first to nudge it in a new direction, his voice thoughtful, gentle. “Y’know,” he said, swirling his drink absently, “Halloween’s always been kinda special for me. Used to be my favourite time of year when I was a kid.” He smiled faintly, eyes unfocused, like he was seeing something far away. “Mama’d take me to the church carnival every year. They’d have all these games, hayrides, even bobbin’ for apples. I loved it. And we’d go to the church the next mornin’, of course, All Saints’ Day, so Mama always made sure we were home early, but for those few hours, it was like nothin’ else mattered.” He laughed a little, shaking his head. 

Stanley listened, letting Fiddleford’s words wash over him, the way they softened as he spoke about his childhood. It was so odd to him how you could tell when someone was happy when they spoke, even odder was the way you knew it was an old memory from how their tone softened.

But then again, maybe it was just Fiddleford who was like this.

“So you, uh… you dress up?” Stan asked. “I bet you already had all the stuff to be a cowboy or somethin’. Or would that have been just an everyday outfit?” He joked, grinning.

Fiddleford chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, Mama wouldn’t let me do costumes. Said it was too close to, uh… things she didn’t approve of.” He hesitated for a moment, a flicker of something else in his eyes, but he pushed it away with a smile. “But I still had fun. Didn’t need a costume to enjoy the games.”

Stanley nodded, messing with his glass. “Sounds nice,” he said, and he meant it, but there was a tightness in his chest that made the words feel heavy. “I mean, my Halloweens weren’t all bad. My brother, um,” Stan adjusted the way he was sitting. “He always found a way to sneak me out, even if it meant we had to come back early, before our old man noticed.” His eyes flicked down to his glass, and he swirled the remaining moonshine around, watching it catch the light. 

Fiddleford didn’t say anything at first, but Stanley could feel his eyes on him, like he was trying to piece something together. “Sounds like yer brother cared a lot about ya,” he said gently, after a moment. “Must’ve been nice, havin’ someone like that.”

He hesitated, glancing down at his glass, swirling the liquid around a bit. “I… I remember we"d run around the neighbourhood, see who could get the most candy.”

Fiddleford’s eyes lit up at that, and he leaned in a little closer, resting his chin on his hand. “Sounds nice. What’d y’all dress up as?”

Stanley chuckled, but it was a dry, hollow sound. “Oh, all sorts of things. One year, I was a pirate. Another year, my brother made us these matching cowboy outfits.” He paused, his smile fading. 

“He was always getting me out of trouble,” Stanley said, his voice quieter now. “He was good at that. Good at… figurin’ things out, fixin’ things. I guess Dad went easier on him ‘cause of it. Or maybe ‘cause he was smarter, or… I dunno. Just the way things were.” He swallowed, the moonshine burning a little more on the way down this time. “I guess I was always messin’ up, and he was always cleanin’ up after me.”

The room felt a little too warm, and Stanley shifted in his chair, avoiding Fiddleford’s gaze. “I mean, our old man wasn’t… he wasn’t the best dad—I-I mean who really has an amazing childhood, y’know? And he had his reasons! Wanted us to be tough, to be ready for the real world. And maybe… maybe I deserved most of it. I wasn’t exactly easy to handle.”

There was a heavy silence after that, the kind that seemed to stretch on forever. Stanley kept his eyes on his drink, the glass trembling slightly in his hand, but he could feel Fiddleford watching him. It made his chest ache, like he was being squeezed too tight, but at the same time, it was… comforting, in a way.

He didn’t know.
Wasn’t sure how to feel with everything floating around him like it was.

He wished he hadn"t started talking about his father.

“Stan,” Fiddleford said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, “now I didn’t know you, an’ I certainly didn’t know your father, but from what I"ve heard you didn’t deserve none a’that.”

“... Yeah.” Stan let out, scratching the side of his cheek.

There was a lull in the conversation before Fiddleford spoke up.
“I remember when I was… oh, maybe fifteen, my ma finally let me dress up an’ go trick or treatin’,” he said. “She made me the costume. A scarecrow. Had straw stickin’ outta every which way, and I must’ve been itchin’ all night, but it was worth it. Got more candy that year than I knew what to do with.”

Stan let out a soft breath through his nose.
“That sounds nice.” He said, looking over at the other man.

Fiddleford nodded.
“It was a blast.” He said. “I uh… I still remember the friends I went with. Um, Daniel, Jackson, Loretta and um…” He paused. “Grant.”

There was a long pause before Fiddleford sniffled. “My older sister went along with us as well.” He said. “Kate. she was around uh, 23 at the time.”

“Yeah?”

Fiddleford took a long sip from his glass, his eyes distant, softened by memory. His voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “Yeah. I ever tell you ‘bout her? About Kate?” He let out, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “She passed a few years ago. Some fever got to her. Always felt… strange, losin’ her like that. It was so fast. Didn’t even know she was sick until mama called me about her bein’...” He stopped.

Fiddleford took in a long, deep breath, shifting in his seat.
“She was one of the only people who never made me feel… weird .” He said. “Or gross, or… I dunno. It’s ironic, ain’t it? She was so sweet, so kind. It’s always them, ain’t it?”

Stan’s eyes, heavy with alcohol, turned a bit bleary as he looked at Fiddleford, trying to focus. “I’m sorry.” He said, resorting to his default when he didn’t know how to respond. “She sounds… she sounds like she was nice.”

Fiddleford nodded, a sad smile crossing his face. “She was. Always had my back, even when I was a kid and no one really understood why I was the way I was. Left me somethin’ too—a piano.” He paused, a wistful note in his tone. “She wanted me to have it. I promised I’d learn to play it someday, but I never… well, life gets in the way, doesn’t it?”

Stan gave him a blank, slightly dazed look, a mix of curiosity and confusion on his face. “You have a piano?”

Fiddleford nodded.
“Mhm. It’s in my bedroom,” he said. “You ever been in there?”

Stan’s eyes widened slightly as his eyebrows furrowed.
“That’s a really weird way of leading up to that, Fidds…” he slurred, blinking slowly. 

Fiddleford chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Not like that, Stan,” he said with a slight smile, his eyes glinting with affection. “I just meant… oh, I dunno. I hate havin’ it collectin’ dust. Was gonna ask if you knew how to play the piano.”

Stan laughed, shaking his head and said: “no, but my brother was a pro at it. It’s only because he’s a huge show off, though. See, he—” had six fingers , is what he wanted to say.

But something stopped him.

“He, uh…” Stan looked back at the glass in his hand. “He was a huge nerd about this song he liked, so he forced himself to learn it on a piano our dad was tryin’ to sell.”

They fell silent for a few moments, each seemingly lost in thought, until Fiddleford began speaking again, his voice softer. “I grew up feelin’ like there was somethin’ wrong with me.” He said, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the table, a habit that seemed to come and go.

Stan fixed a strand of hair that fell into his eye, stinging as he looked back up at Fiddleford.

The man continued.
“I mean… I was tall, gangly… I got all excited ‘bout things no one else cared about, an’ I always cared too much about it all.”

Stan watched as Fiddleford took another drink, his eyes dark and distant, the memories visibly weighing on him.

His words felt familiar. 

Fiddleford gave a small, bitter chuckle. “Had to hide everythin’ I was, too. Liked things I wasn’t supposed to, felt things…” He paused, chewing his lip. “I had to pretend I didn’t. Learned to like huntin’ and fishin’, an’ I did all the things that were supposed to make me… I don’t know, less of an oddity, but ain’t none of it helped.”

“So, I’d build things, y’know?” Fiddleford continued. “Only place I could be myself. Somethin’ about creatin’—workin’ with my hands—it let me forget all that for a while. Didn’t have to focus on myself, just on what I was makin’. No guilt, no pressure, just… me. Y’know, idle hands an’ all. Terrified me, so I’d work ‘till my hands had blisters an’ my sleep schedule was all sorts of messed up.”

It began to feel like a wild animal was burrowing into Stanley’s chest as he listened, his eyes welling with tears. He knew that feeling, knew it too well, that desperate need to escape who you actually were just to find a little peace, a moment without worrying about what you were doing.

“Fidds,” he said, voice softer than usual, “I… I get it. When I was little, I used to, um, I used to draw comics. I got this one…” for a moment, Stanley forgot where he was going with this, but then he remembered. “I got this Batman comic. Volume one, number 117— no. No, um, 171.” He said. “I got it on my tenth birthday. I fuckin’ cherished that thing. Y’know I still have it? It’s in my car, under the seat. I remember I read it an’ somethin’ just fuckin’ clicked. I wanted to draw comics. I wanted to do that professionally, I wanted to make—”

Stan stopped.
“Christ,” he said, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. “I wanted to make money.”

There was a long pause before he cleared his throat.
“Well, anyway,” Stan said. “I get how you felt. Wanting to… hide, having nowhere to go, so you hid in what you were making.”

Fiddleford’s eyes softened, meeting Stan’s.
“I know you do. That-that’s why it’s so easy to talk to you.” He hesitated, as if trying to find the right words. “When you grow up in-in a household like mine was, it’s hard to feel okay bein’… like I was. Felt wrong. Like there’s somethin’ bad inside me.” He looked down, his fingers trembling slightly. “Somethin’ gross; But you make me feel like…”

Fiddleford sighed, his expression lightening a bit.
“Maybe it ain’t wrong.”

Stan took a deep breath, reaching over to try to cover Fiddleford’s hand with his own. He ended up almost falling off of his chair, but he held onto the dining table with a death grip.

The pair barely noticed.
“You’re not wrong, Fiddleford.” Stan continued. “How you are isn’t wrong. How we are isn’t… there’s nothin’ wrong with you! You… you’re just… you’re you.” He hoped his words meant something.

They probably didn’t.

Stanley took a shaky breath, then found himself speaking without really wanting to. “Y’know, I got some things like that, too,” he murmured, the alcohol loosening his tongue in a way that felt freeing, almost dangerous. He swallowed.

“When I was in… fifth grade, I think,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, “I had this history test. Worked my ass off, spent the whole night studyin’ for it, didn’t let my brother check my paper or nothin’. I was just so… damn proud of myself. Thought maybe—maybe I’d finally get it right this time.”

Stanley let out a bitter laugh, the memory painfully sharp and stabbing at him. “Guess I thought wrong. I got an F-minus . Didn’t even fuckin’ know you could get lower than an F. Probably woulda been a better grade if I’d just not tried at all.”

Fiddleford’s gaze softened, his hand stilling on the table, but he stayed silent.

“Dad found out, of course. Made me stand outside for two days straight, holdin’ this sign that said, ‘Extra Stan, three dollars or better offer.’ Like… like I was some kinda junk he could just pawn off to the first person who’d take me.” Stanley’s voice cracked on the last word, and he quickly looked away, as though he could hide the shame and pain simmering in his expression, the way he wanted to cry so badly.

“Taught me a lesson, I guess.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Fiddleford’s eyes were wide with quiet horror, and his hand moved, reaching out to rest gently on Stanley’s shoulder.

Stanley, unable to look at Fiddleford, kept staring down at the empty glass in his hands. “After that I stopped tryin’. I’d just copy my brother’s homework. He… he’d let me, too. Never wanted me to go through that again.” He chuckled dryly, but there was no humour in the sound. “Guess I figured it better not to try at all than to just keep failing, y’know?”

Fiddleford’s grip on his shoulder tightened, his expression pained. “Stan, that’s… that’s awful.” His voice shook. 

Stanley shrugged, forcing a grin. “Eh, don’t worry about it. Toughened me up, right? Made me who I am.” He paused, the smile fading from his face. “But I… I guess I always sorta knew I was a mistake. I mean, they didn’t plan for me. Didn’t even really have a name set out for me. I just-I wonder if he ever saw me as anything more than that.”

Stan looked down, blinking hard, his vision swimming. 

He knew the truth.

But even drunk, he hated the thought of it.

His words still hung in the air as Stan moved to take another sip, but his glass was empty. He stared down at it. “What a fuck up I am.” He muttered, reaching and pouring the last bit of the bottle into his cup, spilling a few drops.

Fiddleford moved his hand away, resting it back on the table.
“When I was seven,” he said, and Stan looked back up at him. “There was this kid I really, really liked. I don’t even remember his name.” He said, pushing his glasses up. “We were on a church camping trip that summer, and… I’d seen girls hold hands with the boys they liked, and I thought—thought it’d be the same. So, I remember I-I walked over to him, nervous as any little kid with a crush, y’know? An’ I tried to hold his hand.”

Fiddleford paused, swallowing hard, blinking rapidly.
“I remember… I was wearin’ these yellow trunks,” he whispered, a look of shame crossing his face. “And he looked at me and it all jus’... clicked. I was bad. Gross, disgusting, sinful . I was wrong.”

Stan’s heart ached as he listened.
“Fidds…”

“The boy pushed me under the water,” Fiddleford continued, his voice even softer, trembling. “Held me down, like he was tryin’ to drown me. And I thought that was it. I was gonna die, and I was gonna go to hell.” He let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “Even remember thinkin’, ‘Well, at least they won’t have to tell Mom and Dad what I did if I’m dead.’”

Stan felt his mouth become dry, anger clawing its way up his stomach and to his chest.

“An adult finally noticed,” Fiddleford went on. “They pulled us away. But no one… nobody asked why or what happened. My folks never found out, but I kept that memory, y’know? Carried it around, like a—like a stone in my chest.”

Fiddleford blinked.
“I was so little, Stan. I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to be like that.” He whispered, leaning closer. “I have nightmares about it still. About staring up at him from the water. I thought I loved him, and he was tryin’ to kill me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Stanley sat in heavy silence, the words he knew he should say catching in his throat. What Fiddleford had told him felt like something pulled from the deepest part of himself, and it sat between them, filling the room with a solemn, aching weight. 

He took a sip from his glass.

Stanley took a shuddering breath, his gaze drifting to the carved pumpkins on the table, their hollow eyes watching him.

He hadn’t thought about this in years.

“When I was a teenager,” he started, voice soft, “I started… noticin’ things. People. Not just girls, like I was supposed to. And I had no idea what to do with it.” He gave a short, hollow laugh, as though mocking his younger self. “Figured there had to be somethin’ wrong with me.”

“There was this kid down the street. Ray,” Stanley said, a faint smile ghosting over his lips. “He was… my only friend, really. Just some stupid fucking kid with freckles and red hair. We’d hang out, throw rocks at bottles, talk about leavin’ town someday. I didn’t even realise I felt somethin’ for him until one night when we both snuck out an’ we met up behind the old high school.”

Talking about it, Stan could feel the weight of that night, the sticky summer air, the crickets chirping in the dark. 

“We’d been talking about nothin’ for hours,” he continued, “when he just… leaned in and kissed me. Neither of us knew what the hell we were doin’. We were both so scared our parents would find out.”

He let out a small, shaky laugh, one filled with both bitterness and nostalgia. “It was awkward as hell. Teeth clinkin’, both of us lookin’ over our shoulders the whole time. But it was… I dunno, it was nice, I guess. It was– it was like for a second, I wasn’t just the screw-up kid in town. I was someone who meant somethin’ to someone else.”

Stan looked away, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “Didn’t last, though. Ray’s folks found out—not what we’d be doin’, thank god, but they found out he’d been sneakin’ around at night and they ended up sendin’ him to a private school across the state. Never saw him again.” His hand found Fiddleford’s, his thumb tracing absent circles against the man’s knuckles. “After that, I just kinda shoved it all down, y’know? Kept myself busy screwin’ up in other ways. Easier than thinkin’ about it.”

Fiddleford’s gaze softened, his hand slipping up to cup the side of Stan’s face, thumb brushing along his cheekbone. For a moment, neither of them spoke, just letting the silence stretch between them, heavy but oddly comforting.

He stayed still, but Stan could feel the tremor in his hand, the way his fingers twitched slightly. Whatever he was about to say, Stan knew it was going to hurt. But he stayed silent, letting Fiddleford decide how to share the piece of himself he was clearly unearthing.

“When I was sixteen,” Fiddleford began, his voice barely more than a whisper, “I… I fell in love. Didn’t know how it happened, but it did.” He paused, swallowing. “It was with my best friend, Grant. We’d known each other forever, grew up together, y’know? But it was different… I dunno, it was different from how I felt when I was a kid.”

Stan’s heart sank as he listened, afraid of where this was going.

“We ended up together, an’ I felt like the luckiest guy in the world. We’d hold hands under the table at school sometimes, sit real close together. And one night, um, in August, he snuck into my bedroom. We sat on my bed, whisperin’ in the dark, dreamin’ up these wild plans.” Fiddleford smiled, the memory bringing a faint light to his face. “We thought we could make lots of money somehow, live together in the middle of nowhere, and no one would ever know we were… together.”

“I still remember it so clearly,” Fiddleford murmured, his gaze fixed on some far-off point. “I put my hands on Grant’s cheeks, and we both leaned in. It was gonna be our first kiss.”

Fiddleford’s face fell, the moment slipping away from him. “An’ um… m’daddy walked in.”

Fiddleford went quiet again. The room felt colder, the air thickening around them. Fiddleford reached over slowly, taking Stan’s hand and guiding it gently to his face, placing Stan’s fingertips on the bridge of his nose.

Stan’s finger traced a slight bend.

A healed break. 

“The next thing I knew,” Fiddleford whispered, voice trembling as Stanley leaned back, “I was in the bathroom, tryin’ to clean up all the blood. Sobbing, holdin’ my face real close to the faucet so that the water would wash off the dryin’ blood from under m’nose. ” He swallowed hard, his eyes closed for a moment.

Stan didn’t know what to do.
He felt awful, his face drawn with faint sorrow. 

“M’daddy… he was a quiet man,” Fiddleford continued. “Hardly ever raised his voice, hardly spoke to me or anyone else. He’d take me huntin’ with my dog, or out fishin’ on weekends. He was like this… constant thing. Always there, never changin’. He was safe.” Fiddleford shook his head slowly. “And that night, he yelled at me. I ain’t never heard him yell before, let alone at any of his kids. Let alone at… me. And he broke my nose. I was the youngest, Stan. I was the baby of the family, an’ I just… I ruined that.”

Fiddleford pushed his glasses up, sniffling.

“They pulled me outta school for weeks. Mama told everyone I was sick, that I needed to rest.” His voice grew softer. “I remember she said it wasn’t a lie, too. Said that I was sick.”

Stanley didn’t like the look in Fiddleford’s eyes, the way he didn’t look like himself.
He was scared.

That’s what it was. 

Fiddleford let out a broken breath. “I don’t even know what happened to Grant. He just… disappeared. And that was that. I tried to forget it, tried to tell myself it was a punishment I deserved, that it was… God’s way of showin’ me what I was, I guess. But it didn’t stop the feelin’, didn’t stop the memories.”

Stan cupped Fiddleford’s face in his hands, his thumb brushing softly against the faint curve of his nose, his voice low, furious. “You didn’t deserve that, Fidds,” he said, an edge to his voice. “Not a single part of you deserves to carry that.”

Fiddleford leaned into Stan’s touch, closing his eyes as if surrendering to a comfort he’d been denied his whole life. After a long silence, he let out a small, shuddering sigh, his hand resting over Stan’s.

“I know,” he whispered, barely audible. “But I wish I could forget it.”

He leaned in, pressing their foreheads together.
“I’d take that from you if I could.”

“You didn’t deserve any a’what happened to you, Stan. You’re a better person than you think ya are, y’just can’t see it.”

They were quiet for a long time after that, unmoving.
Stan’s voice was quiet when he spoke. “When I was 10, me and my brother found a trashed ship inside a cave on the beach. We decided to fix it up, we made this plan to go treasure huntin’. Y’know how kids are. And every day after school, we’d fix it up a little, and every single day, all day during the summer, we’d work on it—we always had these god awful sunburns.” They both laughed softly at his words.

Stan leaned back, his hands finding Fiddleford’s, their fingers intertwining. “When I was 17, the principle called both me an’ my brother up to his office. Turns out he only wanted to talk to my brother, and that our parents were in there, too. See, um, we didn’t really know if he would get into a college—I mean, he was unfathomably smart, y’know, but uh, my family’s Jewish and Mexican.” He explained. “So me and him were gonna travel around the world after highschool, we’d saved the money for it and everything. Go treasure hunting…”

“What happened?” Fiddleford urged him on.

Stan blinked.
“Turns out he had this opportunity to go to this really, really good college because of how smart he was,” he said. “And… I ruined it.”

Fiddleford’s eyebrows furrowed in concern.
“What do you mean?”

“I ruined his life, Fidds. I looked up to him, he protected me and I ruined his life . I fucked up the project he’d made that they were going to use to say if he got into the school or not and they didn’t let him go. I-I don’t even know if he went to a college or if he just…” Stan’s eyes were welling with tears, but he fought them back. “I know he moved out, but I don’t-I don’t know. Dad kicked me out the moment he found out what happened, an’ I don’t even fuckin’ blame him.” He shifted his weight, swallowing. “Said I couldn’t—I couldn’t come back until I made back the money I cost them since I ruined my brother’s chance.”

“...Oh, Stanley.” Fiddleford reached up, petting Stan’s jaw.

“I’m a loser.” Stan let out. “I-I can’t even afford a motel room, and I expect to be able to go back?”

“Stan,”

“No, I—”

“Stanley, look at me.”

He did.
Fiddleford shook his head.

“It was a mistake—”

“No, I meant to—”

“Stanley, listen to me.” Fiddleford sighed. “I don’t care. I don’t care what you did, or how any of this happened, or why. You regret what you did, and you were dealt a real awful hand in life even before any of this. You grew up. You’re a good person, Stanley. Please , don’t forget that.”

Stan blinked tears from his blurry eyes, letting them slide down his cheeks.
“Thank you.” He whispered. “You’re… you’re too good for me. You deserve so much better—”

“Shut up.” Fiddleford whispered back. “I deserve somethin’ good, yeah?”

Stan nodded.

“Then I deserve you.”

Stan exhaled with a shudder, nodding slightly.
“I… I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He said.

Fiddleford smiled softly. “Good thing you won’t have to find out, huh?”

Stanley felt tired.
Tired throughout his entire body, a sort of exhaustion that made his bones feel heavy. He leaned against Fiddleford’s shoulder, causing both of them to almost fall off of their separate chairs.

“C’mon,” Fiddleford let out, helping Stanley stand up.
They both stumbled a bit, a laugh leaving Stan’s lips as they made their way to the couch, collectively falling onto it.

“I’m so happy I’m with you.” Fiddleford whispered, holding the other man as they both fell asleep, thunder rumbling softly outside. 

Stanley was sprawled out on the couch, the sound of the TV filling the room with a low hum as he absently chewed on another piece of chocolate. The flickering screen cast dim light across the room, illuminating his face as he watched Carrie with only half of his attention. He felt a little out of it, the hazy remnants of his hangover finally easing up, leaving him comfortably numb.

He couldn’t quite remember the events of last night, but the hazy warmth of being with Fiddleford lingered in his mind, as comfortable as the old blanket draped over his lap. He could hear the faint creak of the floorboards, the soft rustling of fabric—probably Fiddleford wrestling with some part of his costume.

Fiddleford had been in the bathroom for ages, getting into his costume, though Stan had no idea what it was. The thought made him smile a little as he imagined the man taking his time in front of the mirror, adjusting every detail. He probably looked ridiculous, Stan figured, but he liked that.

As he waited, his mind wandered back to the soft moments from the morning, waking up with Fiddleford asleep beside him on the couch. Stan had stirred first, a vague memory of arms around him and the warmth of someone close by. He hadn’t been sure whether to laugh or feel embarrassed, but Fiddleford had given him a sleepy smile, a kiss on the cheek and something resembling a hug before they both got up, heading to the kitchen to make coffee and nurse their mutual hangovers.

Stan’s chest tightened at the memory, a faint pang of guilt creeping in, but he shook it off, pulling himself back into the present. Fiddleford had been through a lot, he remembered, but last night had felt… good, somehow. Right, in a strange way, like a crack in a wall that let a little light shine through.

From what he could remember, at least.

He stuffed another handful of candy in his mouth, trying to focus on whatever he was watching. There was something so normal about this—sitting here, waiting for Fiddleford to come out, watching a movie, eating the Halloween candy that was “only for the trick-or-treaters, Stan!”

It felt like home.

He liked it.

A faint sound from the hallway caught his attention, and he glanced up, heart skipping just a little (for some reason) as he caught the movement of Fiddleford’s shadow under the bathroom door.

After a bit, the bathroom door swung open, and Fiddleford stepped out from the hallway with a dramatic flourish, pausing with a grin and his hands on his hips.

Stanley’s jaw dropped.

Fiddleford was dressed head-to-toe as a vampire—a very striking one. His white button-up shirt had sleeves that billowed at the wrists, giving him a faintly aristocratic air, and a frilly white neck-tie was nestled at his throat. A black vest hugged his torso, paired with tight black leather bell-bottoms that caught the light in the room around the bones of his hips, the tassels swishing as he moved. The black cape rested on his shoulders, and he wore old black cowboy boots that Stan had seen him wear before at some point. Two red dots painted on his neck hinted at a bite mark, and glowing, pointed fangs peeked out from his grin.

Stan’s heart went into overdrive, his face heating up as he stared, suddenly aware that he was gripping the couch cushion a little too tightly.

“Well,” Fiddleford started, the words muffled and slightly slurred by the plastic fangs, “whaddya think? Ah… y’know, I thought the vampire thing might be a bit much, but… reckon I don’t look too shabby, huh?”

Stan swallowed, trying to piece together a response that didn’t sound like a mess of stammered, poorly hidden admiration.

“Y—Yeah,” he managed, voice a little too high. “I mean—you look great. Really… great. Like, uh, better than great. You look…” He waved his hand helplessly, struggling for words as his gaze traced from the flow of the cape down to the leather pants. “I, uh… you look like you just stepped off one of those, um… gothic, fancy vampire magazines, or… you know, if those were, like, a thing.”

Fiddleford’s grin grew, his cheeks tinged pink.
“Ya really think so? I kinda just pulled this together. Found the cape in the attic from… honestly I don’t know what. And these pants, well—” He gestured to them, and Stan’s gaze followed, utterly transfixed. “Had ‘em for ages, though I don’t wear ‘em out much. Bit flashier than I usually go.”

Stan forced a laugh, his voice barely steady. “No, they—they’re perfect. I mean, the whole thing’s perfect. You, uh, you really pull it off.” He could feel his pulse hammering as he dared to look up into Fiddleford’s eyes. “Like, um, like dangerously well.”

Fiddleford chuckled, flashing the glow-in-the-dark fangs. “Reckon I’ll be sure to steer clear of mirrors tonight, then. Don’t wanna scare m’self!” He laughed, muffled and a little silly with the fangs, but Stanley barely heard him. His heart was racing as he tried to hold himself together under the weight of just how stunning the other man  looked.

Fiddleford settled down on the couch beside Stanley, stretching his legs out and grinning as he leaned a little closer. “Y’know, Stan, you’re mighty brave for sittin’ this close to a vampire. Might not be safe for ya.”

Stanley raised an eyebrow, trying to play it cool, trying to make it seem like his heart wasn’t thundering in his chest. “Oh yeah? What, uh, kinda danger am I in exactly?”

Fiddleford smiled, flashing the glow-in-the-dark fangs again, leaning closer until Stan could feel his breath on his neck. “The kinda danger where I might just—” he paused for effect, and then dipped down, his lips to Stan’s neck in a playful ‘bite.’ The fake fangs pressed awkwardly to Stan’s skin, and he felt a bit of warm drool trickling down his neck as Fiddleford laughed quietly against him, clearly caught off guard by the effect of the teeth.

“Oh, sweet sarsaparilla,” Fiddleford muttered, pulling back with a sheepish grin, wiping at the spot with his thumb. “I’m sorry, Stan—I’m slobberin’ all over you like a hound dog.” He reached up and tugged the fangs out, setting them aside with a laugh. “Them fangs ain’t exactly built for charm.”

Stan snorted. “S’alright,” he muttered, trying not to sound too breathless. “Didn’t mind it.”

Fiddleford tilted his head, smiling as he leaned in again. This time, his lips pressed gently to the side of Stanley’s neck, warm and soft without the barrier of the fake fangs. He left a soft kiss on Stanley’s neck, then another, and another. Stan let his eyes fall shut, feeling his skin grow warmer with each gentle movement of Fiddleford’s lips.

His heart pounded, hands clutching the edge of the couch as Fiddleford continued, trailing up along the curve of Stan’s neck, pausing every so often to leave faint, stinging little marks that Stanley knew would turn into hickeys by the next morning.

Stan wasn’t even thinking about anything but Fiddleford—about the warmth of his mouth, the way each gentle kiss sent a thrill down his spine. He didn’t realise how fast his heart was beating, or how quiet he’d gone.

When Fiddleford finally pulled back, a slight flush on his face, he grinned shyly. “Think I might’ve overdone it there,” he said, looking away. “I-I’m sorry.”

Stan reached up to touch his neck, still tingling where Fiddleford’s lips had been. “Don’t worry about it,” he said with a lopsided smile. “I’ll just, uh…” He grabbed the collar of the turtleneck Fiddleford had loaned him the night before, unrolling it and pulling it up higher. “Cover it up. I guess it’s good you made me this sweater, huh?”

Fiddleford nodded, and then paused.
“Uh, I mean, I made the sweater for myself, I just—“

“Fidds…”

Fiddleford blushed, pressing his fingers together nervously. “Oh, alright, maybe I fibbed a little.”

Stanley only laughed, shaking his head as he reached over and kissed Fiddleford’s reddened lips. They both immediately relaxed into it, Fiddleford’s hands coming to rest gently on Stan’s shoulders. They nuzzled into each other afterward, settling into a close embrace on the couch, Fiddleford’s arm around Stan, and Stan leaning in so that he could feel the steady warmth of Fiddleford’s chest against his own. 

The marks on his neck felt like a reminder, like proof that this wasn’t just a dream or a fleeting moment. He loved that they were there, that they felt real. 

That this felt real.

A soft smile spread across Stanley’s face as he thought about it—about how Fiddleford’s touch, his presence, and even the hickies he left seemed to make this… whatever this was, feel like it wasn’t just some one-time thing. 

Like Fiddleford actually cared.
Like he actually loved him.

Fiddleford’s voice broke through his thoughts, soft and curious. “So… what’s this scary movie we’re watchin’?”

Stan hummed. “Carrie.”

“Oh…” Fiddleford let out, but his voice seemed weak.

Stan looked up at him. “Oh, c’mon, don’t tell me you’re scared of a movie, Fidds.”

Fiddleford let out an annoyed grunt. “You kiddin’? I—“ he paused, and then shook his head. “Yeah, no, I can’t stand horror. I’m a big ol’ coward about it. Is there anything else on that’s maybe… I dunno, a little less terrifying?”

Stan gasped, nudging him playfully. “Fiddleford McGucket, afraid of some fake blood and creepy music? Never woulda guessed.”

Before Fiddleford could answer, there was a knock at the door. His eyes lit up, and he sprang to his feet, popping the vampire teeth back in as he grabbed the candy bowl. 

He glanced down at the bowl, and then back at Stanley. “Were you eatin’ the candy?” He asked as he walked over to the front door. 

Stan glanced away.
“Uhh, no.”

Fiddleford rolled his eyes, laughing.
“Oh sure, an’ I’m the one who’s tellin’ fibs.”

With an exaggerated, dramatic flair, he threw open the door and let out a friendly, muffled “Happy Halloween!” to the group of trick-or-treaters, handing out candy with a grin.

Stan watched him from the couch, grinning to himself at how excited Fiddleford was, even if he had to fumble through his words with those absolutely ridiculous vampire fangs. After Fiddleford closed the door, he came back over, settling beside Stan again and reaching over to gently pet the man’s hair, his fingers threading through it in a soft, comforting rhythm.

“Hey, Stan?”

“Mm?” He let out, flipping through the channels to find a movie that wouldn’t be as scary.

Fiddleford nuzzled against him again.
“Happy Halloween.”