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“So, why are you living with a married couple, exactly?”
Stanford does his best to keep his sigh internal, but the way Stanley raises his eyebrow, he can tell he failed– he does a better job mentally kicking himself, instead. This conversation. He knew he would be having it, inevitably, but he didn’t think, or perhaps just hoped that it wouldn’t be so soon. Stan has only been in Oregon for half a day, and Ford expected this to be a day three-or-four topic. Though, to be fair to Stan, he supposes it is the most pressing matter, now that they’ve gotten past all the not-so-pleasant pleasantries ( how are you, how have you been, what have you been doing all these years– the “ without me ” going unspoken), but he thought it could wait– wait until he got a good enough read on Stan to form an, at least, semi-accurate idea of how he’d react.
“Well, uh,” Ford fumbles to stall. Eventually, he settles on a simple half-truth, “We’re friends.”
Stan snorts. “Well, yeah, duh,” he says, and Ford doesn’t need to look at him to know he’s rolling his eyes at him. “But I don’t tend to move in with my friends and third-wheel them 24/7.”
“I am not ‘third-wheeling,” Ford spits immediately, perhaps with more vitriol than is necessary– but the word makes his stomach turn in frustration, memories of misunderstandings at best and willful ignorance at worst coming to the forefront of his mind.
Stan lets out a little, almost-nervous laugh, raising his hands defensively. He doesn’t say anything more, evidently picking up on the annoyed tone in Ford’s voice and deciding not to push, turning his focus back to the half-empty bottle of beer in his hand, swirling the liquid inside before taking a swig. Ford is more than happy to drop the subject, but he can tell by the furrow in his brother’s brow that he’s unsatisfied, only refusing to push because he’s not sure whether they’re back on that level of brotherhood yet– the level where they can push each other, and not ruin their chances of staying the night in the other’s guest room.
Ford sighs, twirling his own beer by the bottleneck. “We met in college,” he admits, like he’s telling a secret. Stan perks up, setting his drink aside, as if the story requires his full attention. Ford almost laughs– he’s not planning on revealing that much. “Fiddleford was my roommate and best friend. He and Emma-May began dating not long after we met, and we became good friends as well. And as time passed, we realized that… we work better as a trio.” Ford risks a glance at Stan, having been staring into the brown glass in between his fingers– Stan seems understanding so far, more curious than anything. No judgement yet. “Our lives have just… entwined, I suppose.”
The safe half-truth is easy, slips from his tongue with practiced ease, because there’s not many people he’s told the messy, complicated truth-truth– not even their Ma, who still thinks Emma-May and Fiddleford live down the street from him, not in his home where they sleep in the same bed most nights, and keep each other up the rest.
He takes a deep breath before speaking his next words, “I can’t imagine my life without them.” It’s as much of the truth as he can stomach telling his brother. For now, at least.
Stan smiles at him. “Cute,” he says simply. “It’s good that you have friends like that.” He almost sounds bitter as he turns his gaze downward.
Ford just nods. “But- ah,” he starts, wanting to divest from this topic as fast as possible, “you never told me about your own living situation.”
Stan takes a deep breath that hisses through his teeth and looks away, out the window and past the treeline, evidently not ready for that conversation either. They both take long sips of their drinks.
Fiddleford is lightly strumming a song on his banjo into the night when Ford steps out of the house and flops boneless into the wicker couch beside him, head falling onto his shoulder and jostling his arm so the tune cuts off with an abrupt twang that sends his small audience of the local murder of crows Ford keeps feeding flying and gaze of raccoons skittering (and probably a hidden gnome or two, judging by a series of little grunts from the bushes).
“Well, howdy,” Fidds says with a smile as he wraps his arm around Ford’s shoulder, pulling him close, and sets the instrument down with his fretting hand so he can use it to close the circuit around his lover’s neck. Ford hums happily and leans into the hold. “How’s the brotherly bonding going?” he asks. Ford responds by throwing his head back and letting out a loud, long-suffering groan that sends any remaining critters scuttling off– Fidds just laughs. “That bad?”
Ford sighs. “Not really,” he admits, righting his head’s position. “I’m just… tired.”
“Well, I probably would be too if I was talking to someone I haven’t seen in a decade.” Fidds reaches over the side of the couch to grab the half-empty bottle of beer he left on the end table, smiling and trying not to laugh at the way Ford grumbles and clings to his side like a limpet through the movement. He takes a short swig and holds it out to Ford, who shakes his head, having had his fill trying to cope with awkward silences. Fidds shrugs and puts the bottle back. “Did y’all get any real talking done? About everything that happened?”
“No,” Ford grumbles with his cheek pressed into Fidds’ chest, either frustrated with the answer or that Fidds asked. “It was all small talk.” He sighs, pulling away so his cheek isn’t muffling his words, “There's just– so much to say. And so little, all at the same time.”
“You got time,” Fidds assures with a little squeeze to his shoulder.
“It’s odd, talking to him now,” Ford continues. “It’s harder than I thought it would be. It used to come naturally. We were always on the same wavelength as kids.”
“You’re not kids anymore,” Fidds says gently. “You’re different people now. Can’t expect everything to stay the same.”
Ford frowns. “Yeah.”
Fidds expects more, but when none comes, he just pulls Ford closer– Ford goes limp against him with a little noise of satisfaction, especially when Fidds’ hand snakes into his hair and scratches at his scalp. He brings his free arm around Ford, holding on to him like something would snatch him away if he didn’t. “You’ll figure it out,” Fidds assures him with a pat to the shoulder, but Ford’s stopped listening, content to soak in the pleasant sensation and the summer night’s warm air, filled with the sounds of crickets and Fidds’ breathing, his chest rising and falling under his temple, heart beating in his ear.
The moment stretches on like that for quite some time, the two men contentedly embracing, until Ford breaks the ambience to mumble, “I missed you.”
Fidds tilts his head, confused. “I been here all day.”
Ford starts to mutter a correction under his breath before shaking his head and returning to his train of thought. “But I haven’t seen you all day. I’ve been stressed, and–” he takes a second to clear his throat before continuing, “and you always make it better.”
“Awww.” Ford’s face flushes hotter at the reaction than it did having to say it in the first place. He’d hide his face in Fidds’ shoulder if the man didn’t bring a hand to cup his jaw and lift his gaze, encouraging him to sit up straight. “Come here, sugar,” Fidds says, softly, like he’s telling a secret– and maybe he is now. Regardless, Ford represses a little laugh at the long-standing (despite his protests) pet name in favor of leaning in, tilting his head along the way to avoid bumping noses, and pressing his lips to Fidds’, melting into it like it’s the most natural thing in the world– it might as well be.
Both men heard the back door to the porch open, they didn’t miss it– it just took them both a moment to remember that Emma-May wasn’t the only person who could've opened that door.
Stan had been lying in bed for nearly half an hour before the craving for a smoke couldn’t be ignored any longer. He’d sworn to himself he’d try to stop smoking, especially while he was a guest in Ford’s house, but that didn’t last very long, not while he was a guest in Ford’s house.
Taking a cigarette from the package and placing it between his teeth, he navigated his way through the oddly decorated cabin– half packed with framed accolades for Ford’s academic contributions and research, weird inventions and his jars of downright terrifying specimens, and half how he’d imagine a regular suburban home occupied by a haimish southern couple would be decorated– hoping Ford won’t catch him and assume that he was some kind of animal, about to smoke inside his home. He can almost perfectly imagine the disgust and offense on Ford’s face (though the Ford in his mind still takes the form of an older teenager than the adult man he’s spent the last few hours gritting his teeth to get through talking to) and laughs to himself as he imagines what pretentious bullshit about his health and hygiene Ford would spout, and shoulders through the screen door to the back porch.
He stops laughing fast when he realizes what’s out there.
Stan has always known his brother to be… of peculiar tastes, but the last thing anyone expects to see in any context is their brother sucking face with a married man.
Stan had briefly met Fiddleford and Emma-May when he arrived that morning, them being the ones to greet and invite him inside before he even knocked on the front door. At first, he thought he had the wrong house and accidentally walked into a horror movie where these folksy southerners were going to kill and cannibalize him, but then Ford came in from downstairs and scolded the two, gentler than he’d ever done for Stan when they were kids, for crowding him, before greeting Stan himself with a nervous smile and the world’s worst attempt at hiding anxiety Stan’s ever seen– not that he blamed him, since he was in the same boat, just better at hiding it.
Ford had smiled at the two, dare he say longingly, while recounting the story of how his two friends first met and fell in love– which he really had no reason to, but anything to keep them from the elephant in the room– and Stan perceived nothing but a picture-perfect, happy couple, who moved into a house their best friend built in a small town he planned to conduct research in, for convenience and proximity. A bit out of the ordinary, but he expected nothing less from Ford’s best friends.
So, this?
The cigarette in his mouth falls comically to the deck, but he doesn’t have the wherewithal to laugh or lament the wasted nicotine. It makes no sound, but the front door slamming across the house does, and catches the three’s attention– or at least it catches Stan’s, and more importantly Fiddleford’s, who pulls away despite a dramatic, heartbroken whine from Ford, one that makes Stan feel sick to his stomach. What gives him the right to be upset he’s been pulled away from his- this affair ? Stan has no time to let the horror turn to rage– Fiddleford has pulled away, and lazily opens his eyes to make accidental but direct eye contact with him over Ford’s shoulder, and the horror solidifies, freezing his blood all over again. Evidently, Fiddleford feels the same way, eyes widening as recognition sets in. Ford starts to turn himself, to see what the commotion is all about, but Stan has already slammed the door behind him before he can catch a glimpse of his face.
He presses his back against the door as if it’ll keep what he’d just learned sealed away, away from him, and more importantly from–
“Boys?” A gentle voice with a mixed-but-definitely-still-southern accent calls out from the kitchen. Stan slowly turns the corner and sees Emma-May placing her briefcase on the poor excuse for a dining table alongside a paper bag full of groceries. “Stanley,” she greets warmly with a smile when she sees him– it drops into a frown and a confused tilt of the head when she really gets a look at his face. He can’t see her eyes behind her curls, but she can evidently see his. “What’s the matter? Is everything okay?” The concern in her voice as she slinks around the poor excuse for a dining table and approaches him makes his heart hurt.
“Shit, Emma–” he throws a glance over his shoulder to make sure she can’t see–. After a moment of stuttering, he finally lands on, “I’m so sorry.”
“For what?”
Stan hesitates– he didn’t think this far ahead. Is he really going to have to be the one to break this news to her? He’s been through a lot, but he’s never had to tell a woman that her husband is cheating on her. And not just any affair, but one with his own brother , for God’s sake. He mentally curses his brother for dragging him into this mess, putting him in this position, then Fiddleford, for cheating on his wife who, at least from Stan’s limited knowledge, is nothing but perfect, in the first place.
He sucks in a deep breath, then lets it out in a rush to keep this moment as short as possible; “I think your husband's cheating on you with my brother.”
Stan’s not sure what the appropriate reaction to this kind of news is– denial? Rage? Despair? Any of those, he wouldn’t blame her a second for. But Emma-May, in response to learning her husband is cheating on her, barks out a sharp, almost startled laugh. She slaps a hand over her mouth to keep it muffled, but another laugh soon follows, until she’s doubled over herself laughing. It– kind of scares Stan. Is this some kind of trauma response? He starts to look around for an exit.
After far too much laughter, Emma-May stands up straight, wiping a tear from her eye under her bangs, and catches her breath. “Oh, Stanley!” She manages between breaths and little giggles that threaten to bring her back to a state of hysteria. “It’s okay! I know about it!”
Stan blinks. “You… know?”
Another round of laughter bubbles out of her, short-lived, to Stan’s relief. She reaches out and gives him a playful slap on the shoulder, in that ‘oh, you’ kind of way. “You’re sweet,” she says, still smiling, “but we’re, uh–” she takes a moment to think, mouth working without her voice, before settling on, “ open .” Stan pointedly tilts his head at her, not following whatsoever. She sighs– not rudely, more like to prepare herself to speak– and explains, in a patient tone, like she’s had this exact conversation more than she can count; “Fiddleford is both of our partner. He’s my husband and Ford’s boyfriend. I know about it. I’m okay with it– more than okay. I encourage it, actually.”
She throws that last part at him with a wink that only serves to send him further into the spiral she’s just sent him into with this information. She watches him with a smile, like she’s used to watching people react this way.
“I was going to tell you.” Ford’s voice comes from behind, startling Stan out of the train wreck happening in his mind as he attempts to process. He turns and sees Ford standing there awkwardly with Fiddleford, hiding behind him like a shy child, clearly having just been dragged inside by the hand Fiddleford is still holding. His face seems pale and he refuses to look up from the floorboards. “I just… didn’t know when. Or how.”
Stan stares at him for a long time, not sure what to say. He hopes either of the other two will say something for him, but Emma-May just gestures her husband over. “Fidds, hon, let’s let the boys talk,” she says gently. “Here, help me put the groceries away, they can talk outside.”
Fidds nods and looks to Ford, who trembles as his… boyfriend, apparently, brings their entwined hands to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to his knuckles before dropping it and joining his wife in the kitchen. Stan steps out of the way to let him pass and watches for a moment as they fall into a comfortable rhythm taking various produce out of the bag and putting it in the fridge. Then Ford clears his throat and nods toward the door to the porch. Stan nods and follows him out as the married couple begins discussing Emma-May’s day at work.
“I didn’t know how to bring it up,” Ford says, mutters, really, fidgeting with his fingers like he used to do when they were kids.
“I thought I brought it up,” Stan says, probably too harshly, as he blows out a mouthful of smoke. Ford flinches and he takes a sadistic pleasure in seeing him hang his head in shame. Serves him right.
“I know, I just…” He sighs. “I wasn’t ready,” he admits gently, almost too quiet to hear over the cacophony of crickets around them. Stan feels a little bad now, and lets Ford take a minute to gather his thoughts to make up for it. “I’ve been parroting the same lie to Ma whenever she calls. I guess I just fell into it again.” He swallows. “Lying to my family, I mean.”
Stan chews the inside of his cheek for a moment. He sighs, brings the cigarette between his fingers up to his lips and says, “I forgive you,” before placing it between them and breathing in the calming smoke.
“Right, I’m sorry.”
He didn’t mean it that way, but he’s glad Ford is finally learning to apologize instead of explain. Those two must be a good influence on him, he thinks with a little chuckle. Ford raises an eyebrow at him and he shakes his head, pulling the cigarette from his lips and tapping the end.
“So Ma doesn’t know?” Stan starts, partly out of nowhere.
“Of course not,” Ford scoffs, immediately on his wavelength. “She thinks they’re my friends from college who live in town.”
“Feh.”
“I know.” Ford takes a moment to think. “I should tell her the truth.”
“I don’t know about that,” Stan laughs. “Ma’s pretty good, but she’s probably not ready for that kind of thing.” He gestures to his dome. “Her head might pop off.”
“Pa’s certainly would,” Ford mutters bitterly. “He was always worried about those hippies putting ideas in my head.”
Stan doesn’t respond, just takes another drag. The silence stretches between them far longer than either of them are comfortable with, especially now that Ford doesn’t have anything in his hands to escape it with. Stan considers throwing him a bone, but he has an equally uncomfortable question to ask, and he might as well do it now.
“You thought I’d react badly?” He asks, turning to face his brother for this one. Ford startles, looking up at Stan with those wide owl-eyes he always had when someone took him out of his thoughts. He fidgets awkwardly, looking away when Stan’s hurt expression gets too much to bear.
“In my defense, we never talked about this sort of thing as kids.” Ford huffs a little humorless laugh. “Hell, I didn’t know it was a thing until my second year.” He pulls at his fingers as though he wants to pull them out of place. Stan reaches out and pulls his hands away from each other. Ford jumps at the sudden touch, but curls his hands into fists in front of him instead of continuing to pull. “I really didn’t know how you would react. To our relationship. To Fiddleford being both married to a woman and my boyfriend at the same time. God, to me having a boyfriend –”
“The boyfriend part doesn’t surprise me,” Stan interrupts.
“Excuse me?” Ford sounds offended.
Stan laughs. “I’ve known you were gay since we were, like, eleven.”
“What? That’s before I knew.”
A long, awkward silence follows.
Eventually, Ford speaks again, cutting through the squawk of a crow somewhere nearby. “It is really… okay?”
“Is what?”
“You know what,” Ford snaps, before shaking his head and taking a breath. “That I’m…” His hands start to cycle in front of him, trying to will the right words to the front of his mind like a magician. Stan wonders which part he’s about to reference, but Ford gives up finding the words and continues without them. “I know it’s weird.”
“So are you,” Stan says without thinking. He pauses to mentally kick himself for that one, but Ford laughs, clearly not as bothered by that notion as he used to be– he files that away to ponder later. “Look,” he says, taking the steps to plant himself right in front of his brother, who he notices looks so different. His face is no longer so gaunt, jaw still sharp but cheeks filled out, and his clothing actually fits him instead of hanging off of him like a skeleton. He’s actually taking care of his curls now– they’re no longer frizzy and unkempt, but shiny and uniform like Emma-May’s. “Are you happy?” Stan asks, even though he already knows the answer.
Ford takes a moment before he smiles and shows off those chubby cheeks better. He didn’t know Ford had dimples. “Yes. I am.”
Stan raises a his free hand and rests it on his brother’s shoulder. “Then I don’t care.” He pauses, eyes flicking up as he thinks. “I mean– I don’t have anything to say about it. I care, obviously.” He gives Ford a crooked smile. “Because you're my brother."
Ford raises his own hand to rest on top of Stan’s, and lays his head on top of their twined hands. There’s something childlike in the gesture, something vulnerable– something familiar that reminds him of when they were just boys and Stan would reassure Ford after a nasty comment from the bully of the week. Stan just watches for a beat before pulling his brother into a hug, careful to not let his barely-smoldering cigarette touch Ford’s clothes. Ford freezes up, just for a moment– the faintest tension, like his body hasn’t yet decided whether it’s allowed to soften. Then, slowly, he leans into it and wraps his arms around Stan– they’re strong now, able to protect him on their own, but he still lets himself be held, allows his brother’s arms to close around him like a barrier between him and the cruel outside world.
When they step back inside, the kitchen is empty. Stan opens the fridge to grab a drink, and fresh produce stocks the shelves.
“They must’ve gone to bed already,” Ford observes, mostly to himself, “Emma usually has long work days.” He turns to Stan and grins. “She’s an engineer,” he says, full of pride and love.
Stan grins back. “I’m aware.” He closes the fridge and slaps Ford on the back with the hand not holding another drink– only one. “Now go make sure your boyfriend and your boyfriend’s wife aren’t snogging without you.”
Ford sputters but whisks himself off to what Stan now knows to be the three’s shared bedroom.