foolishmortals

[Ford's chilly demeanor is beginning to melt a little, because, well...he knows. What it's like to want to be normal. That was his whole damn childhood, growing up with a twin and two more fingers than everyone else. Growing up in a pawn shop with a fraud psychic mother. Nothing about Ford Pines has ever been normal, so maybe...maybe it was just easier for him to accept one more thing.]

I understand. I do. And—I know you loved her. I know that wasn't a lie. I used to see you looking at their picture. It wasn't for show.

[And God, did he ever feel jealous, and feel horrible for that fact. Just like he feels horrible right now.]

But I don't see what that has to do with me. With this.

Because whenever I'm around you -- you're like some sort of anti-normality black hole.

[He doesn't mean it in a hurtful way, honest, but after everything he experienced being friends with Ford the first time around (and he remembers more and more of that every day, thanks to the kickstart from the Journal) he feels it's a fair assessment.]

So I've been told.

[It's a lot harder to hurt his feelings than that.]

But—what are you trying to say, Fiddleford? That after all these years, you're finally going to...to stop pretending you don't know how I feel about you?

[He doesn't want to believe it, because he's spent forty years telling himself nothing could ever come of it. Even after everything...well, who knew what old man McGucket would think of it?

[See, Ford, that kind of makes it sound like you have a genuine thing for him that goes beyond just fooling around in college. Which... can't be right, right? He kind of wants to ask and he also really, really doesn't because if this turns out to be more serious than Ford Pines being a little drunk that's going to be opening a much bigger and gnarlier can of worms. So he sidesteps it for now.]

I... I mean I've always known you were... that's not the issue. I'm not that closed-minded.

[That's not what Ford is talking about and he knows it and he doesn't know how to address it so he has to just come at it sideways, keep it in the corner of his eye. That's safest.]

It's okay. [There's a fond sort of smile playing about Ford's lips.] You can say it. 'A flaming queer.' Or, 'confirmed bachelor,' as Lefou put it. Either way, I'm not hiding anything.

[He wishes Fiddleford could feel the same way. But if he's going to play dumb, then Ford's going to do the same. He doesn't know how else to have this conversation without making Fiddleford hyperventilate.]

So what it comes down to, then, is me not putting it on display around you. Is that it?

[Of course it isn't. He's shrewd enough to know that.]

[hhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHH

He feels like he's two steps away from hyperventilating either way.]

No! No, that's not what I'm sayin'.

[It is, a little. It's not when it's around him that's the problem, it's when it's at him, and it's not even a problem for the reason Ford thinks it is, and god dammit he owes it to Ford to be honest because it was keeping secrets that destroyed their friendship in the first place, wasn't it, and if he has to know about his mistakes then the least he can do is try not to make them again.]

It's just that if you keep doin' it I'm goin' to be awful tempted to give in, because I've got nothin' to go back to anyway. I've got nothin' to lose anymore except you, you understand? And if -- if you die -- which I know isn't goin' to happen, I know we'll be fine [lie to yourself until you believe it] but hypothetically --

[He's goddamn terrified, alright? He's still struggling with the after-effects of convincing himself he can't even trust Ford at all. He's not confident and he's not eloquent and he doesn't know how Ford can't see how hard this is.]

[Ford's eyebrows rise steadily higher and higher the more Fiddleford goes on, because he certainly wasn't expecting that to slip out, at least not so soon, and damn if his traitorous stomach doesn't do a flip-flop he didn't give it permission to do.

Before Fiddleford is finished talking, Ford scoots to the edge of his bed, leaving his pen and his Nessie drawing to the wayside. He still smells faintly of alcohol, but it's more of a warm smell than an overwhelmingly boozy one by this point.

He reaches for his friend's hand.]

So let me get this straight. [Haha. Get it.] If I make advances toward you, you're afraid that you'll...act in kind. And then lose me.

[Again.

God, his stomach is a mess and his brain is yelling at him to do something, but he just doesn't know the right thing to do.]

But look at it this way. In the highly unlikely event that something does happen to me—which it won't—would you want to miss your chance to know for sure?

[Fiddleford doesn't actively take Ford's hand but he doesn't resist at all when Ford reaches out to him. He feels like he's standing on the edge of a cliff. His chest is very visibly rising and falling. For a very long several moments he just looks at Ford, his mouth slightly open, like there's words in his throat but he can't wrangle them past his lips.]

It's -- [His voice goes high and screechy the way it always doe when he's barely keeping a grip on himself. He swallows. One word at a time. Come on.]

It's not ... I could've erased that memory any time I wanted. I could've erased you. [He can't look at Ford as he talks or he'll lose his nerve.] Y'know how much easier my life would've been if I'd just... just got rid of you? And I never did.

I'm not scared because I'm not sure.

[The urge to haul Fiddleford into a bear hug right now is very strong, because he's doing that thing with his voice and he's turning into a wreck before Ford's very eyes, and that comes with a healthy dose of guilt because that's his fault. Again. But he resists, and gives that hand a squeeze.

When he finds the right words, his voice is low and soft and gentle. He's skimming over that healthy dose of hurt, because he doesn't like to think about it, so he won't.]

Then why? Why are you afraid? You can tell me.

Jesus, Stanford, why do you think?

[He wishes he was handling this better. In a perfect world he'd be making some kind of sweeping proclamation. In a perfect world it would be easy to just detonate his entire self-image and rebuild it to seamlessly include something he's staunchly denied for ten years. It's not and he just feels panicked and he can't even articulate why he does because he's not good at articulating this kind of thing.]

It's not -- it's not as easy as just -- It's not.

[How could it possibly be?]

[Ford makes a helpless little gesture with his free hand. What the hell is he supposed to do, here? He's seen gay panic before, but this...this is on a whole different level.]

That's not—you can't make me guess.

[Ford sighs, his head and hand both dropping, letting Fiddleford's free.]

I wish I knew...how to make this easier for you. I wish I knew the right thing to say to make you feel better. But you know me, Fiddleford. That's never been my strong point. So let me just—

[Alright, fuckin' yolo.]

I have feelings for you, Fiddleford. Even after forty goddamn years, even after three weeks in this haunted mansion. Plain and simple. I—

[He'd been about to blurt out the whole shebang but he stops himself.]

So there you have it. Whatever you say can't possibly be any more scary than that.

[HhhhhhhHHHHHHHGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH

He thought he was making himself pretty clear. For him the past few minutes have been an exercise in trying to say it in every way except actually saying it because actually saying it is making himself far too vulnerable, making it far too real.]

What do you think I've been --

[Now that his hands are free they both rise to his hair and grip very, very tight. He feels like he is going to vibrate right into the next dimension. His back slides down Ford's door until he's just curled into a ball on the floor, like he's trying to fold in on himself and into nothing.]

You goddamn oblivious idiot.

[This is far too many social skills required at once for Ford Pines and he suddenly has that feeling like everything is on fire and it's his fault again. And what the hell is he supposed to do? He clearly missed a cue somewhere along the line, but he's tried what he knows —being direct and upfront and trying his damnedest to be understanding and gentle, things he is not at all good at but God damn it, he's trying.

He watches Fiddleford sink down onto the floor, and once more he finds himself joining him down on the floor in what is becoming an alarmingly common configuration, bracing himself on one knee.]

I...don't understand. I thought I was being helpful. I'm not—I need you to be direct with me. Please.

[He lets out a shaky breath.]

I... I know. I know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm not better at this. It's just -- god dammit, of course I love you, you're my best friend!

[He reaches out with one hand and brings his fist down on Ford's shoulder. It's barely a hit, more like a half-hearted bap. His hand shakes for a moment and then goes flat-palmed and just rests there.]

Of course I do. But I fell in love with a woman and I figured... I f-figured that meant it was a fluke, it had to be, just somethin' that happened once and didn't mean nothin'. Because likin' both was... is... I figured I had to pick one and I did, didn't I?

But it turns out it doesn't make likin' one go away when you pick the other. That's what my secret was. 'Fiddleford McGucket is a bisexual'.

[He says it in an exceptionally weary voice, like it's something he's resigned to. He has no problems with it in theory, honest, but it's different when it's someone else. It's different when it's hypothetical. When it's you and you've wanted all your life to just be normal and happy... well. Maybe it's just him, but he did what he always does when he's confronted with problems he can't solve: he buried it real real deep and tried to forget.

Thinking of it that way kind of puts it in perspective, doesn't it?]

Shoulda learned from the damn ray. I can't just -- I can't just get rid of bits of myself.

[He'll take that bap. He deserves it at the very least, probably. He barely feels it, anyway, because he's too busy gaping at Fiddleford with his mouth open and a look of pure shock on his face. Because he might have had an inkling of where this was going, but he definitely wasn't expecting Fiddleford McGucket to say 'I love you' to his face. Even if—it's maybe meant in a friend context, even if that's the case, it's still not something he thought he'd ever hear, after forty years of wanting to hear it.

Slowly, he brings his hand up to cover the one on his shoulder, big and warm and solid.]

I'm very glad you can't. Because I happen to be incredibly fond of all the bits that make you, well, you. But—I'm sorry. If I caused you more pain than I thought. That was never my intention, Fiddleford.

[Ford should treasure that 'I love you', because it's probably the only one he'll get for a while. Fiddleford used up all the monumental energy it took to force those words out of his mouth in a moment of duress and honestly now he just feels like sleeping for a week. There's a heat in his throat and behind his eyes and he doesn't have a headache yet but he feels like he might soon. He's just so wrung out. Today's been too much on top of everything else he's trying to pretend he's dealing with okay.]

I know it wasn't.

[This, too, is something he's still having to remind himself of to make sure it sticks. He's so used to resenting Ford -- it became a nice security blanket as his life fell apart around him. But he knows Ford is sorry, he knows because he read it and Ford had no reason to lie and it's fine, it's fine. He can trust Ford with this. He can trust that Ford, for all his shortcomings when it comes to interpersonal affairs, never once meant to cause him emotional distress.]

Half of this I'm doin' to myself anyway, I know I am and I feel like such a gosh-darn fool but I can't turn it off and I'm sorry.

[He's still breathing uneven and quick, like a terrified animal. Every now and again he'll manage a longer, deeper breath -- he's trying, he's trying, but this has been one hell of a conversation.]

[Oh, he'll treasure it. He's going to remember it for as long as he has left to live, be it a week or thirty years. But he can't focus on that right now, because Fiddleford is still upset and getting worked up again, so Ford needs to focus on this instead.]

It's okay. You're not a fool. You're only human. Here, just—

[Carefully, Ford readjusts his hands and pulls Fiddleford in so he can rest his face against Ford's shoulder, if he wants. He seems like maybe he could use a hug.]

You don't—there's no need to apologize. It's just me, Fiddleford.

[Oh, sure. It's just Ford. It's just Ford, the man who prompts more intense and complicated emotions in him than almost anyone else in his life. He presses his face into Ford's shoulder and concentrates on the texture of his sweater and the scent of him, warm and still faintly-alcoholic. Slowly, very slowly, his breathing evens out and his shoulders fall out of the rigid position he'd been holding them in.]

...Thank you. [His voice is very small, very tired.] You've been tryin' to do right by me since the first day we were stuck here and I've been such a jackass.

[He's pleased that it seems to be the right thing to do; he lets Fiddleford stay there as long as he needs to, rubbing his shoulder absently. He just stays quiet, letting him figure out his breathing, pleased when he seems to relax his skinny frame, even.

Tentatively, he ruffles the hair at the base of Fiddleford's neck. It's hard to restrain himself from being too affectionate.]

That's alright. I can hardly blame you, after all. [He hesitates, and then:] Would you...like me to walk you back to your room?

Bein' honest what I'd like is a drink but I figure that rum's probably long-gone, isn't it.

[It's only halfway a joke. That is, it's funny, but it's also entirely true. He wants a drink and then a month-long nap.]

[Ford chuckles, rumbling in his chest, and reaches one-handed for his coat on the bed. From the inside pocket, he pulls out the bottle of rum, which surprisingly still has a couple inches left at the bottom.]

You're in luck.

Oh, thank the good sweet lord.

[He reaches for the bottle. It's a little awkward because he doesn't want to take his face off Ford's shoulder if he can help it. He's going to have to if he wants to uncork it, isn't he. Dammit. Okay. Sitting back. He's a grown man and that was more than enough of a hug.]

There's not enough alcohol in this dang house.

[Ford sees what he's doing there, and he has to fight back the smile that wants to appear. But he lets Fiddleford straighten up, his hands dropping, and snorts.]

You've got that right. Although you'll be happy to know I haven't touched that champagne.

[Yet. He's waiting for the right moment.]

[Look, it's totally okay for a man to hug his best friend. He's from the south but he's not that socially-stunted. He uncorks the bottle and takes a very long drink, though of course he's polite enough to leave plenty for Ford as he passes it back. That's good manners. After having a freakout in Ford's doorway he owes him good manners.]

Good. I'm tellin' you, that stuff's not worth it.

[Slowly, slowly, he begins to uncurl. He stretches out one leg. He rests his arm on his bent knee instead of hugging it up to his chest. He starts the slow, arduous process of allowing himself to relax. It's fine. It's just Ford.

The fact that there is a string or two left loose after their prior conversation is something he's okay with ignoring until he manages to figure out how to tie them up safely.]

[It's undeniably wonderful to see Fiddleford slowly begin to get comfortable. He hasn't seen that since...well, the old days. Before. He takes the bottle back and takes a decent-sized glug, though not near as much as Fiddleford seems to have downed in one go.]

I'm weighing my options with regards to that. But I still think a moonshine still would be an excellent use of our time.

[Our time. As if he's already speaking in plurals. It's not conscious; he's just so eager to have Fiddleford back in his life. To work side by side with him again.

Ford, too, lets himself relax. Stretches out those long legs of his, lets his neck curve back against the edge of the bed with a soft crack. Despite all his energy and stamina, his body does give him the occasional reminder that he is, in fact, getting old. Something that he's all too aware of tonight.]

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i almost had him say more but honestly this sums it up

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