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“I don't want to remember, Stanford,” Fiddleford said firmly, though a tired edge cracked his voice. “It's the one thing I don't want to remember, just let me have this.”
Stanford lifted a hand as though to silence him. “I know, I get that. You told me. But listen.” He tried to rest a coaxing hand on Fiddleford's narrow shoulder, as friendly as a six-fingered monstrosity could be, but Fiddleford leaned away, just enough. Stanford paid it no mind, locked eyes with Fiddleford as if nothing had happened, but there was a new sharpness in his eyes, a new venom on his tongue.
“I need to know what you saw,” he said. “It's become vastly apparent to me that we saw entirely different things inside the portal. Different worlds, different universes! What I saw was – Fiddleford, it was amazing, absolutely awe-inspiring, you'd never believe me if I told you.”
“How nice for you,” Fiddleford said through clenched teeth.
“This is important to me and by all means, it should be important to you, too. I'm only asking for your cooperation, just this once.”
Fiddleford could barely hold Stanford's gaze any longer – it was penetrating and remorseless and made him feel inexplicably exhausted. His eyes glanced at the kitchen door, the route of his escape, though his mouth offered Ford a helpless, half-hearted smile.
“You make it sound like it won't hurt me, Stanford.”
“It won't, I promise you, it won't.”
Ford's voice was so earnest that for a moment, Fiddleford almost believed him. He wanted to.
He had to physically push himself away from the counter to tear himself away from Ford and all that he wanted. “Leave it alone, Stanford,” he muttered, “I'm begging you.”
Stanford reached after him as he began his slow pad out of the kitchen. “Fiddleford, please! Wait--” But Fiddleford had paused in the hallway and Stanford caught up with him in a mere heartbeat. Once more, he reached for his shoulder. “Fiddleford.”
Then he noticed the chatter of the television, felt a pair of eyes drill holes in him. He drew his hand back, hid it in the pocket of his coat.
“Lee,” he said.
“Ford,” Stanley said flatly. He was flicking through channels, the remote held out in front of him, but his attention was firmly, resolutely, on Stanford.
Feeling suddenly flustered, Ford squared his shoulders. He nodded as if to say goodbye – or hello, or “sorry you had to hear that” – and then he swept around Fiddleford in tense silence and left them alone.
Fiddleford heaved a sigh and finally dropped his shoulders. “Thank you,” he croaked.
Stanley turned his eyes back to the TV. “Dunno what you're talking about.” He went back to flicking through channels – more out of habit than interest, Fiddleford thought, as he didn't actually wait long enough to see what was on.
The lone step between hallway and living room creaked softly as Fiddleford's weight teased it. He plunged into the darkness and squinted against the TV's harsh, bluish glow, occasionally catching a glimpse of his reflection when the screen went black between channels. Tired lines marred his face and bags drooped beneath his half-lidded eyes. He snorted faintly. “I look god-awful.”
“Everyone looks bad in this kind of lighting,” Stan said, casually but without missing a beat. “Not flattering at all. Seriously, did you see Ford? Got one look at my face then bam, outta here. Good riddance. I tell you, I don't mind being this ugly if it means I don't have to deal with jerks like him.”
Fiddleford chuckled, but only just. He was only now rediscovering that exhaustion made simple things like laughter hurt in the deepest of ways.
Stanley glanced at him standing there in his socks, one arm wrapped protectively around his middle. “You okay?” he said carefully.
“Sure,” Fiddleford said, and tried for a smile. “Just tired. And old. I'm remembering that now, what being old feels like. Could've done with keeping that forgotten, to be honest.”
Stan was already beginning to haul himself out of the chair, despite the creak of his bones. “So what, you need to sit down or--”
“No, no,” Fiddleford said quickly, not wanting Stan to overexert himself for his sake. “I can see you're well on your way to – to being absorbed by that there armchair and I don't want to interfere. Stanford needs a new anomaly to obsess over. Half man, half armchair. An abomination, really. You're an abomination, Stan.”
Stan snapped his fingers in Fiddleford's face. “Wake up, Fidds, don't croak on me now.”
“You don't need to get up, I'll sit on the damn dinosaur skull.”
But Stan stuck his leg out as Fiddleford made to walk by him. “Your bony ass on that skull? I'll give it five minutes before it shatters.”
Fiddleford frowned. “My ass ain't that bony.”
“Trust me. It is. Eat food, you maniac.”
“Well maybe if y'all stopped making Stancakes for breakfast--”
“Never. But my point is – don't look at me like that – you need something comfortable to sit on, right? You're a man of luxury.”
“You're not getting up.”
Stan grinned. “Luckily, thanks to the miracle of modern science, I don't have to.” And, with a flourish of his hand, he gestured at the real estate between his generous stomach and knobbly knees.
Fiddleford glanced down at it, then back up. He would have laughed if he hadn't been so tired. “Stan, please.”
Stan waved him off. “Come on, we're not kids, we don't need to beat around the bush. Don't force me to invest in a real couch, I'll never speak to you again.”
“Speaking of kids--”
“They don't care and you know it. It would warm Mabel's little oversized heart. Just c'mere.”
Fiddleford couldn't stop the tiny smile that tugged at his lips. “And what do I get out of this, exactly?”
Stan snorted. “Seriously?”
In reality, Fiddleford needed little convincing and they both knew it. Stan spread his legs and Fiddleford mounted the armchair with his knee, just enough to allow Stan to scoop him up with his strong, warm arms. Fiddleford was powerless to keep from melting into the embrace, from turning his face inward and burying it in the fabric of Stan's shirt. He could tell only from the tranquility of the TV's light that Stan had set the remote down and stopped channel surfing. Someone on the TV was talking but their voice was drowned out by the sound of Fiddleford's own breathing and the steady thump of Stan's heart in his ear.
For a few wonderful minutes they were silent. Fiddleford was content to be held, to be safe, as Stan kept him close and stroked a thumb across his shoulder. Stan was not one for soft words and heart-to-hearts – unsurprising considering the amount of trouble the man had admitting he liked the occasional romantic comedy – but his actions spoke louder than anything he could have ever said. Stanford had left Fiddleford vulnerable and exhausted – Stanley had noticed, and this was his response. It was perfect. Fiddleford loved him for it.
When the silence had stretched on for long enough, Stan cleared his throat.
“So, about Ford... uh... Same old thing again?”
“Don't wanna talk about it,” Fiddleford muttered into Stan's chest.
“Okay, sure.”
Stan picked up the remote again and resumed his channel surfing. The TV flashed and flickered in the darkness as the channels changed. Fiddleford closed his eyes to shut it out. The TV's voices slowly melted into noise. The living room faded out around him. Everything faded until all he was aware of was the comforting weight of Stan's arm around him.
“Hey. You dead down there?”
“Does being dead feel this nice?” Fiddleford murmured.
He couldn't see the fond smile that graced Stan's face but he did feel the soft, lingering kiss that Stan left on the bridge of his nose.
“I wouldn't know. Maybe.”
“Then I dunno how to tell you this, Stanley, but I might be dead.”
Stan snorted. “Go to sleep, you old fart. I won't move.”
Fiddleford's remaining energy was draining faster than he thought possible thanks to Stan's radiating warmth, but he couldn't help but murmur, “Don't know that you can, considering you're half armchair now.”
“Haha,” Stan said flatly. “Should've been a comedian.”
He suspected Fiddleford dozed off not long after that because he stopped speaking nonsense and his breathing slowed into something low and steady. Stan turned off the TV, set down the remote. He kept his arm curled around Fiddleford even as he closed his own eyes and settled back into the armchair and eventually, sleep took him as well.