You Think It's Worth It? (Fiddlestan)

Chapter 8: You Don't Know

Fiddleford wakes slowly, the morning light filtering in through the dusty windows of The Shack. He shifts, realizing with a start that Stanley is still in his arms, breathing slow and heavy. The realization hits him all at once— he had stayed the night, holding Stanley’s unconscious form, the smell of stale alcohol still clinging to the man's clothes.

Fiddleford doesn't have any time to think of what to say, or of a plan, or even process what had been said the night before. Stan stirs then, his face scrunching up as he blinks against the light, eyes flickering open to find himself still pressed against Fiddleford. He pulls back abruptly, wincing from the bruises adorning his torso, and runs a hand through his disheveled mullet, looking like he wishes he could vanish on the spot.

“You… you stayed here all night?” Stan croaks, his voice hoarse, his throat sore, his head pounding.
Fiddleford can see the redness of his eyes, the weary lines on his face, the bruises just barely hidden under his clothes. He looks hollowed-out, broken in ways Fiddleford doesn’t know how to fix.

“Didn’t feel right leavin’ ya alone,” Fiddleford says gently, studying him, his own knee bouncing anxiously. “You looked like you could use someone here, even if it was just… keepin’ ya company.”

Stan just stares at nothing, his jaw clenching as he avoids Fiddleford’s gaze, his shoulders hunching forward. “I’m sorry you… had to see me like this.”

“Stanley,” Fiddleford begins, reaching for his shoulder, “you don’t gotta—”

But before he can finish, Stan pulls away, his hands shaking, and practically jumps to his feet.

Fiddleford sits still as Stanley’s quiet breakdown turns loud and desperate, the sorrow in his face contorting into something sharper—something that makes Fiddleford shrink back just slightly. As Stanley talks, his voice raw and breaking grows louder, as if he can’t contain the tidal wave of anger he’s been holding back for years.

“I don’t think you get it,” Stan starts, his fists clenching by his sides. “You look at me, and you think I’m… you think I’m somethin’ more than I am, like I’m Ford, or something. But I'm a piece of shit.”

“Stanley, I don’t think you’re—”

“But you don’t know!” he cuts in, his voice choked with frustration, his fists shaking slightly at his sides. Fids thinks he looks like a cornered animal, like he has nowhere to go.
His breathing becomes more ragged, and his movements more agitated, as he word vomits into the quiet room. “You don’t get it, Fiddleford! I’m not him! I’m barely even close! I can’t figure out the goddamn portal! I’ve been trying for months—burning through books, reading Ford’s journals, and I still can’t make it work. If he were here, he’d have it solved in a week, maybe less. But me?” He laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “I’m just a fucking failure. But if he were here, I wouldn't have to work so hard to get him back.”

“Stanley,” Fiddleford whispers, his voice lost in the torrent of Stan’s outburst.

“And if that wasn’t enough, I’m being shaken down by the mob!” Stan’s voice breaks, “They’ve got me right where they want me, in their pocket, making me hold their stupid shipments—like some dumb mule who can’t do anything better. And you know what? Maybe I am just that!!” His eyes are wild with frustration, hurt and shame twisting together, and Fiddleford feels his own chest ache at the sight.

“Stanley, you don’t have to—”

Stanley’s fists clench as he forces the next words out. “You look at me and see him, don’t you?” He laughs, but it's hollow. “I know how you felt about Ford, and now here I am, the lesser twin… a replacement. Just someone to fill in where he left off.”