You Think It's Worth It? (Fiddlestan)

Chapter 3: The Library

Stanley stuffs his hands deep into his jacket pockets as he makes his way down the dimly lit street toward the library for the third night in a row. The cold air of the town at night creeps under his collar, but he doesn’t mind. He’s been through worse. What bothers him more is that he hasn’t seen Fiddleford since their strange encounter. Maybe the guy was just a one-off, another person drifting through his life.

“Probably scared him off,” Stanley mutters to himself, kicking a pebble as he walks. “Not like I ain’t done that before.”

He thinks back to their conversation, how Fiddleford had seemed so open, easy to talk to despite the nervousness in his big round eyes. Stan had a good read on people, and he could tell the guy was decent. Even though Fids rambled and got flustered, there was something real about him—no judgment, no condescension, just… human. It made Stan feel like maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing to let his guard down, just for a moment.

But as the days passed without any sign of Fiddleford, Stan convinced himself it didn’t matter. He had more important things to worry about, like finding answers to what happened to Ford. So, each night, he snuck into the library, slipped into the science section, and pored over books that looked like they’d been abused. He jotted down notes in a small, battered notebook, but it was slow going. Half the time, he couldn’t even understand the technical jargon, and the more he tried to read, the more he felt like he was just chasing shadows.

On the fourth night, Stanley spent hours flipping through a thick, dusty tome on theoretical physics, his head throbbing from trying to make sense of the equations. The glow of the small lamp he’d brought barely illuminated the pages, and everything started to blur together.

“Man, this is pointless,” Stan groaned, rubbing his temples. He snapped the book shut and shoved it aside, leaning back in the wooden chair. Staring up at the ceiling, he tried to clear his head, but the silence of the library made it worse. It was the kind of quiet that got under his skin, reminding him how alone he was in all of this.

Without thinking, he pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl up toward the ceiling. The quiet of the library pressed in around him, and for a brief moment, he imagined Fiddleford sitting across from him, making some dumb joke or lighting up his own pipe. Stan chuckled softly to himself at the thought.

But the moment passed, and the empty chair across from him stayed empty.

The next few nights were much the same. Stan kept returning to the library. The work was mind-numbing, and the lack of progress was frustrating, but he couldn’t stop. Ford was out there somewhere, and Stanley was determined to figure out how to get him back, even if it meant digging through every book in the damn library.

By the sixth night, Stan was feeling the strain. His muscles ached from tension, and his mind was a jumble of half-formed ideas and dead ends. As he reached for yet another book, he glanced toward the door, half-expecting to see Fiddleford walk through it. He shook his head, scolding himself for being so foolish.

“Quit it, Stan,” he muttered. “Guy’s got his own life. Ain’t nobody stickin’ around for your mess.”

But no matter how hard he tried to push it aside, he couldn’t help feeling disappointed. Fiddleford had been… nice. Too nice, maybe. And that wasn’t something Stan was used to, he wanted to hold onto that.

~~

On the seventh night, the frustration finally boiled over. He slammed a book shut and threw it across the room in a fit of anger. It hit the floor with a dull thud, the sound echoing through the empty library.

“This is stupid,” Stanley growled, slamming a fist on the table. “I’m not getting anywhere with this.”

He paced the room, agitated and restless. He was on the run, his brother was lost in some portal, and here he was, hiding in a library every night, trying to play scientist when he barely understood half the stuff he was reading. It felt like a cruel joke, and Stanley hated feeling powerless.