Chapter Text
“All right, I know Backupsmore wasn’t anyone’s first choice, but what we lack in prestige we make up in mostly bug-free dorms! I’m sure your families are proud– more or less.”
The introduction led by the head of Backupsmore University echoed dully– almost mockingly– within Stanford Pines’ mind. His dark eyes cast downwards to the picture he clutched in his hands. It was the last portrait the Pines family took. Waves of nostalgia and heartache crashed into his senses. Even though the man is far from the suffocating and gloomy atmosphere of Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey, he still can’t shake off the ghostly cold hands that try to pull him back into the haunting memories of the past. His eyes are focused on one person in particular his twin brother Stanley. Stanford wanted to hate his brother for what he did, yet he couldn’t wield himself to mirror his cruel father.
“Who ruins a project that had a chance to secure their sibling’s future in a prestige college? He’s always been lousy and no good!” These are the least harsh words Filbrick Pines, a stubborn man who is hard to impress, barked at his wife as she cried for her child’s return.
Stanford’s eyes narrowed as his face fell. The hazy memory of Stanley’s sudden and forced departure nearly two years ago tugged on his heartstrings. He too hopes his brother is okay, wherever life swept him to. With a soft sigh, he tucked the image back into a book he was reading before the opening ceremony commenced, hoping in the back of his mind that he’d forget he put it there.
“-With that, enjoy your life here at BMU!”
...
It wasn’t hard to find his, hopefully, clean and bug-free dorm. It was located closer to the Science and Engineering buildings, on the far end of the BMU’s male dormitory. Much-needed excitement buzzed throughout Stanford’s body. During his enrollment, he requested a room for himself. The man worked best when in long periods of Solitude. To ensure his success in attaining several degrees and creating a flawless thesis, he needed space and tranquility.
Therefore, when Stanford finally grasped onto the doorknob belonging to his designated dorm and turned the handle, his excitement quickly crumbled into confused pieces at the sight before him. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, holding back a grimace as a man played a banjo on one of the twin beds. The other student hummed softly as he drummed his hands along the strings, harmonic tunes echoing within the paper-thin walls. His back is facing him, so he hasn’t yet noticed Stanford’s presence. An inner turmoil brewed within the dark-haired man’s mind. Should he turn around and speak to the Dean? No… that would appear rude if he was forced to be this stranger’s dormmate. Should he just introduce himself like a normal person? Come on Stanford think… this isn’t rocket science– although he would be quick to disagree with that notion.
As the stranger continued to play, it began to pique Stanford’s interest. It sounded familiar and melancholic. Where had he heard this song before? It was obviously a Southern folk classic by the sound of the rhythm and clear accent the man exhibited through his humming. Ultimately, he decided to wait until the song ended. So, Stanford stood there, bags in hand and eyebrows furrowed, deep and lost in his thoughts. The man is… alluring, strangely. He’s wearing a white wife beater, the shoulders cut off, with dark-washed denim bell bottoms. Are those boots? On the bed-? His hair is flowing and long, a mix of golden beige and brown, golden brown? When the song picks up, alluding to its inevitable end, the stranger’s muscles slightly flex, the presumably farm-tanned skin shining beneath the dim lights of the dorm room.
He… He’s… handsome.
Stanford’s stomach twisted at the thought. His father’s warning and threatening words struck his soul and caused a shiver to run up and down his spine. “You better stay clear away from those unruly hippies the news have been broadcasting. They are a bunch of queers; I better not find out you’ve been messing with them. The doctors have been saying they are spreading a disease.” Filbrick was dead serious when he told Stanford this. To ensure his son knew of this, he grasped his collar and yanked him forward as he spoke in a low and ominous tone.
The man forced himself to become disenchanted with the scene following his father’s reminder. When the stranger finished the song, Stanford straightened his long-sleeved blue undershirt and brown vest before making his presence known.
“Hello, my name is Stanford Pines, are you my roommate?”
The sudden sound of his deep, Jersey accent caused the man to quickly turn around. He appeared startled, even a little embarrassed. However, it completely washed away when his eyes caught sight of Stanford. “Ther’ you are, roomie! I was about to start wanderin’ if I got the right room! Come on in, the name’s Fiddleford McGucket!” Fiddleford’s Southern twang was thick, to say the least, but held a tone of politeness. Stanford’s words became caught in his throat when his face was revealed. The banjo player is indeed handsome. His facial features are angular yet soft, with his cheekbones slightly prominent, chin round, and nose narrow and long. Resting on the bridge of his nose is a pair of big aviator glasses, and above his lips is a definite handlebar mustache. The man’s appearance is almost wolfish, the mustache paired with thick, wavy bangs and sideburns.
Stanford cleared his throat when he realized he was staring for too long.
“Sorry, I– your um banjo playing is impressive.”
‘Um’? Really Ford? Get yourself together. He scolded himself, a small smile pulling on his lips as he made his way to the vacant bed. The dorm itself is outdated and old, much like the rest of the University. The wallpaper has intricate, loop designs with an off-white and yellow color scheme. The dark hardwood floor is hardly polished and completely scuffed– luckily whatever vibrant rugs Fiddleford added made it seem less unsightly. Despite the room’s foundation lacking a luxurious vibe, it is spacious and has a small kitchenette and cozy lounge area. There’s also a desk beside each bed, and several bookshelves and built-in shelves along either wall. It appears his roommate has made his side of the room ‘home’. Several pop icon posters and colorful abstract banners hang on the wall his bed is next to. Strewn across his desk are numerous small gadgets and trinkets– a mechanic or engineer perhaps–? And finally, an old brown cowboy hat dangle precariously on one of the bedposts.
“Really? Thanks! It’s just a little hobby of mine.” Fiddleford said, settling the banjo off to the side before laying on his back with his hands beneath his head to prop it up. Stanford hummed in reply as he unzipped his suitcases and began to unpack. The man hoped for a comfortable silence to envelope the two; however, he couldn’t ignore the shivers running up and down his spine and deny how the dark hair on his arms raised. Is he watching me unpack? Does he think I’m weird already? Maybe I need to talk more, that’s what Southerners do, right? He felt embarrassed and his face became flushed. Stanford hoped his roommate didn’t pick up how socially inept he was.
“What song were you playing?” He asked, deciding on a whim to continue the subject of Fiddleford’s playing. Stanford turned around and settled onto his bed, kicking off his dress shoes and pushing them under the bed. He busied himself by organizing countless books and supplies in the desk’s drawers, making sure the novel he was reading before the ceremony was the bottom layer of the stack.
Fiddleford exhaled a lazy sigh before answering. “House of the Rising Sun.” Stanford replied with a soft hum, feeling his throat constrict when he saw the Southern man eyeing him from the corner of his vision. Dread and insecurity pooled into his stomach. Does he think my hands are weird? Oh God… He fastened the pace he was going. Throughout his childhood, the man was constantly mocked for his six-fingered hands. They were an anomaly, a freak genetic mutation, and what he labeled embarrassing. The sound of rummaging and organizing filled the air, as did the fresh scent of ink and paper. Before Stanford can continue the conversation, Fiddleford beat him to it.
“Yeah, it’s one of my favorites- besides Malvin Gaye’s, I heard it through the Grapevine. You've heard of that song? It always plays on my Aunt Earlene’s radio.”
Stanford paused, relaxing his shoulders before finally turning towards the other man. Fiddleford smiled when their eyes met– still in a laid-back relaxed pose. He paused for a second, racking his brain for where he heard either song. “I think I heard both in some stores before, but it was a while back.”
His roommate nodded and sat up. He shoved off his boots haphazardly and tossed them to the floor. They fell on top of each other with a soft thud, the impact on the hard floor caused some dirt particles to soil the carpet. Stanford raised a brow, confused by how he wasn’t bothered by the mess. “So, where did you come from..?” Fiddleford continued the conversation with a change of subject before laying on his side, propped up on one elbow. “...I’m from Tennesee.” The dark-haired student reached down into one of his suitcases and grabbed an article of clothing and a hanger as he gave his answer. “New Jersey, from a little district called Glass Shard Beach.” He hooked the sleeves onto the shoulders of the hanger and settled the shirt flat on the bed. Then he moved on to the next shirt.
“Glass Shard Beach? Sounds like a charmin’ place. I lived on a hog farm. I’m the first of my generation to graduate and continue school.” Fiddleford sighed casually, resting his eyes. Stanford almost let out a sigh of relief not having the man’s alluring dark, chestnut-brown gaze on him. “Your parents must be proud. That is a great feat.” He sidestepped the mention of his home city, focusing on Fiddleford instead. The Southern man chuckled dryly.
“Nah. They would rather me focus on the farm life, get a wife, and have five kids in the next two years.” Stanford involuntarily shuddered at the thought. Gross. He thought to himself, unsure how to even reply to such a statement. As if he was able to read his mind and hear through the thickening silence, an amused small laugh escaped the long-haired man’s lips. His eyes cracked open and crinkled while a smile pulled on his lips. “I can hear your thoughts from here, dude.” He joked.
A burning, embarrassed heat flushed Stanford’s pale skin. He stumbled with his words, his teeth gently tugging his bottom lip. Fiddleford chuckled once more. “Sorry if that sounded heavy, we Southerners ain’t… reserved like most.” He stated. His amused, wolfish grin softened into a neutral smile. The flustered student nodded, lifting his gaze from his clothes to meet the other’s gaze. Fiddleford was already peering up at him through his aviator glasses. For a moment, it seemed his eyes had flickered down to Stanford’s lips; however, he refused to believe he saw the man do such a thing. Must have been my imagination… He reassured himself, relaxing his posture and expression. “Well, if you think you’re doing the right thing, then it doesn’t matter what they think… right?” He offered, smiling nervously.
Fiddleford sat up quickly and launched himself onto his feet. He outstretched a hand to the man. “I think we goin’ to be great friends, Ford.” Stanford eyed his palm nervously. He gazed down at his hands and then back up to his roommate. Time appeared to slow down as he took his hand and shook it. Their gazes locked. An electric shock ran up and down his spine. His head became fuzzy, and his stomach filled with fluttering butterflies.
“Me too, Fidds. It’s been nice meeting you.”