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It’s a warm Friday afternoon in 1971, the temperature a perfect blend of spring giving way to summer. Stanford is reading a book in the red evening light that falls through the open window of his dorm room, listening to the radio and the sound of chirping birds. David Bowie’s “Space Oddity” is playing, accompanied by a chorus of soft clinks coming from the opposite side of the room. It’s the sound of Fiddleford tinkering with some kind of machine, tightening gears and oiling pistons.
Ford looks up at Fiddleford as he hears the clank of Fiddleford setting down his wrench on his desk. Fiddleford turns so he’s sitting backwards on his chair and leans over the backrest, crossing his arms.
“This is a real sad song.” Fiddleford muses aloud. “Lotta folks seem to be under the impression that space travel is all glitz and glam, don’t realize how big a risk it really is. Shows how dangerous living that dream can be, don’tcha think?”
Ford places a bookmark in his book, closes it, and folds his arms. “I disagree. Not about the danger, you’re definitely correct on that front, but about it being a sad song.”
Fidds quirks a brow at him. “What do you mean? The astronaut dies in the end, buddy.”
“The way I see it, “Major Tom” is so starstruck (pun intended) by the beauty of space that he (assuming “Major Tom” is a male, of course) decides that it’s where he wants to die. He’s so deeply affected by being among the stars that he decides dying in space is better than dying on Earth. Think about it. It must be so calm, peaceful, and stress-free compared to the chaos, turmoil, and all the problems that plague our planet.”
Fiddleford raises his eyebrows, an amused yet disbelieving smile appearing on his face. It’s not uncommon for the pair to engage in long and rather philosophical discussions like this, so he’s not all that surprised that Ford is taking the conversation in this direction and turning it into more of an intellectual debate than an informal chat. “You’re saying he kills himself?” Fiddleford asks.
Ford shrugs. “I suppose.”
Fiddleford stares at him for a moment, silent and dumbfounded. “…Geez, you are dark . His death seems like an accident to me. Y’know the line “your circuit’s dead, there’s something wrong”? Kinda implies it wasn’t intentional.” He’s intrigued, as he always is, by the fascinating route the exchange is taking. He’s never had a dull interaction with his friend, whose words never fail to pique his interest. It’s something about the way Stanford’s mind operates, Fiddleford thinks. Something about his voice when he throws out ideas, the way his eyes light up when he talks about what he loves. Something in the energy that Ford gives off, bright, alert, excited, and absolutely priceless. One of a kind in a way he’s not sure he can put into words that the average person would understand, but he’s sure that he admires and appreciates.
“He cuts off communication so he can spend his last moments in serene silence, drifting above the earth and staring out at the cosmos.” Ford says.
“Lyrics also say he’s leavin’ behind a wife, y’know. Ain’t that sad enough for you?”
“He says “tell my wife I love her, she knows”, implying that the wife would understand he died in a place he loved and would find comfort in that fact.” Ford gestures outward.
“I think you’re readin’ too much into this.” Fiddleford gives a huff that betrays his entertainment.
“I don’t see the point of arguing. Wouldn’t you do the same thing if you were surrounded by such indescribable wonder?”
“Uh, no. Would you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a death wish? ”
“Of course not, but if I was going to die, I’d love space to be the place. If I had the chance to go into orbit, I wouldn’t ever want to go back to Earth after getting such a tantalizing taste of the unfathomable depths of the universe.” Ford rattles off, the syllables sharp as his intellect. “Hell, I don’t think I could return to Earth after seeing that, after experiencing that. I’d go insane.”
Fiddleford looks at him like he’s crazy.
Ford simply continues his existential tangent. ““Major Tom” says “the stars look very different today”. Could you imagine how amazing it would be to look back at Earth and out into space from way up there? It would change your perspective entirely.” Ford speaks.
Fiddleford blinks at him. Even indoors, he can see stars the stars (maybe even whole galaxies) shining in Stanford’s brown eyes. “I reckon we could get a pretty good look from right down here.” He stands. “Get your shoes on.”
“What? Why?”
“We’re going out.”
Ford snickers and complies, curious to see where this leads. He grabs his polaroid camera on a whim before Fidds grabs his hand and leads him out the door. “Where are you taking me?” he asks as they descend the stairs.
“Have you ever seen the stars, city boy?”
“Of course I have.” They exit the building and stop just outside the door. Fiddleford turns to him.
“No, I mean really seen the stars. The Milky Way. Every little pinprick of light dusted against the blackness. It’s like a masterpiece of nature’s own creation, I’m tellin’ ‘ya.” He pauses, nearly breathless with excitement. Ford thinks that sounds rather poetic. His friend has always had a way with words, after all. Fiddleford’s tone calms slightly. “What’s the greatest number of stars you’ve seen on a clear night?”
Ford pauses to think and puts a hand to his chin. He remembers camping trips with his brother in the local park, where he would point out constellations as Stanley gathered firewood. He misses those days, but he pushes the memory out of his mind. “Unsure. Somewhere in the low hundreds, perhaps.”
“Then you’re missing out.” Fiddleford grabs him by the shoulders and stares into his eyes, his own blue visionaries sparkling with excitement. “It’s the light pollution. You gotta get way out to really see ‘em. You can see thousands , Stanford. Thousands .”
Ford perks up at the prospect. Fidds shoves him toward Ford’s car. “Keys.” he demands.
Ford looks at him skeptically. He’s never seen Fidds drive before, and though he trusts him, he’s not too keen to simply hand over control so easily. “Uh, no. You crashed that robot last month, remember?”
“A spray-paintin’ drone is a lot different than an clunky little lemon, Stanford.” Fidds holds his hand out.
“Fine… but for the record, my car is not “clunky little lemon”.” Ford reluctantly drops the keys into his waiting palm and they both climb into the vehicle. “Have you ever even driven a car before?” Stanford inquires.
Fidds starts to back out. “No, but I’ve driven a tractor.”
Ford goes white and clutches his knees tightly as Fidds pulls out of the parking lot. “Do you even have your license!?”
“Nope!” Fiddleford pipes happily. He shifts the car into high gear as they pull onto the freeway. They’re racing way above the speed limit, streetlights flying past in a yellowish-orange blur.
“Fiddleford, if you put even one dent in this thing, I swear…”
“Relax, Jersey. I know what I’m doing.”
“I don’t believe you.” Ford rolls his eyes and turns the radio on.
Ford remains tense until the opening notes of “25 or 6 to 4” start blasting over the radio. He starts singing along as soon as the vocals kick in, making ridiculous movements to go along with the lyrics, swaying dramatically, and waving his arms in a goofy dance. Fiddleford grins as he listens, giggling as his friend puts on his silly act. When Ford starts rocking the air guitar, he has to pull over to avoid losing control of the car, tears welling in his eyes and his stomach tying in knots from laughter.
Ford can’t keep the smile from his face as they drive onward, his gaze trained on Fiddleford, watching lines of dim light flicker across his face in the darkness. There’s always been something strangely effortless about their friendship, Ford thinks. The way they just click together. Ford’s never had a bond like the one he has with Fiddleford with anyone else. Their minds operate on the same wavelength, the same level. It’s so wordlessly perfect and pleasant, so oddly fulfilling. Ford has never really known the feeling that sparks in him whenever he’s around Fiddleford, so he’s not sure how to label it. It’s a mix of feelings that shouldn’t belong together. There’s uncertainty, happiness, fear, calm… a bizarre compendium of emotions that he can’t quite grasp. He’s never felt such content, yet such a thrill. It’s new, it’s different, but it feels like it’s always been there, not quite familiar but not alarmingly strange. A strange blend of happiness and deep inner peace that he’s never thought it was possible to achieve. He doesn’t know how to describe it. He doesn’t know how to say how great it is to trust someone so completely and have somebody return that trust so fully and devotedly, knowing it’s there without even having to speak.
They talk and laugh and sing the rest of the journey. After driving a few hours, they arrive at a park. Ford stares out the window as they drive way back into the forest, trying to get a glimpse of the sky through the canopy. They eventually pull onto an overlook just beyond the edge of the woods, situated on a high cliff that overlooks a large lake. Fiddleford parks and they climb out.
Ford’s mouth is hanging open as he stares up at Milky Way. He’s never seen so many stars in his life. He begins running around immediately, grinning and and pointing and shouting and spouting random facts about space. Fidds watches with a smile, glad to see him so happy. Ford is in awe of everything, his restless mind flying, sailing far out into the stars. It shows on his face, in his excited gestures, in the twitch of his muscles. It’s in his eyes, too. That curiosity, that wonder, that indescribable, incredible spark.
Hours pass as they sit and talk on the hood of the car, laughing. Fireflies drift lazily around them as they both lay back on the hood. A contented silence falls between them as they stare up at the stars. Fidds looks over at Ford, smiling.
“So, ‘ya still wanna go to space?”
“No.” says Ford. “I think I’d rather stay on Earth.” He glances over at Fidds, looking into his eyes and smiling. He places his hand on top of Fidds’ and laces their fingers together, not fully aware he’s doing it. “...with you.”
Fidds rolls over so that he’s pressed against Ford and pokes his nose playfully with a finger. “Glad I was able to bring you down to earth, stardust.”
Ford giggles at the touch and the nickname. Fidds snorts and Ford laughs harder. He grabs at Fidds’ shoulders, unintentionally pulling them closer. The laughing dies down, leaving the two smiling and staring at each other. In all the moving and tussling and laughter, they end up with their arms wrapped around one another, their bodies pressed against each other and their legs tangled together, faces inches apart.
“So am I.” Ford whispers. Fidds can feel Ford’s warm breath on his cheek.
Fiddleford doesn’t know what comes over him in that moment, but suddenly he’s leaning forward and kissing Ford. Ford doesn’t know what’s happening, but he’s letting it happen anyway. He’s tangling his fingers in Fidds’ hair and he can’t think at all. All the stars in the sky must have somehow gone to his head, he reasons. They’re filling his skull, warm and bright and wonderful, spiraling themselves into galaxies and constellations beyond comprehension.
Fidds breaks it off after a few seconds. They both sit up and stare at each other with wide eyes, neither one sure what to say. Fiddleford is already screaming internally because holy shit he just kissed his best friend and he fucked up he fucked everything up and oh, God he feels like an idiot this could only end badly why did he do that and… “I-I… I’m… sorry. We should just go.” He’s stammering, trying not to panic. He goes to slide off of the car hood and get back in the car, but freezes as he feels Ford lay his hand gently on his, preventing him from moving from where he sits. His breath catches in his throat and hitches in his chest.
“N-no, I-I…” Stanford feels like he’s making a fool of himself. “I r-really…” He swallows and glances away for a millisecond, trying to collect his words.”Can we- can we please stay?”
Ford doesn’t know anything about romance, but he’s pretty sure what Fidds just did means he likes him. His heart is racing rapidly and his thoughts are spinning because yes , he knows Fidds is a boy, but he doesn’t know if he cares because right now he just can’t believe how good that felt and how much he wants to do that again. He curls their fingers together. Some distant part of him yells that something is wrong about all of this, but somehow, it feels so right. They both look at each other with mouths slightly open. All Ford can hear is the blood pounding in his ears.
“Fiddleford,” he chokes out. He hates how pathetic it sounds, how desperate. His hands are clamming up, so he draws them back. Fidds’ eyes are flickering around rapidly, looking everywhere but at Ford. Ford gently places a hand on his chest in a subconscious attempt to calm Fiddleford's quick breathing. “It’s okay.” Ford whispers, not sure who it’s directed at.
He attempts to remove his hand, unsure why he put it there in the first place, but ends up trailing it down the front of his shirt. Fidds shudders and Ford lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, his face burning. He can feel the sweat trickling down from his temples. Ford’s hand comes to rest at his hip. He curls the fingers of both hands through the belt loops on the front of Fidds’ jeans. The words “gay” and “queer” are ringing in his mind like car alarms (no, louder than car alarms) as they both bring their mouths close again, slowly, hesitantly. He’s starting to think those labels might not be far off, though. If those words really didn’t apply to him, he wouldn’t be doing this at all. He wouldn’t be pressing his lips softly against Fiddleford’s and enjoying it. Fiddleford’s hand finds their way to back of his neck as they kiss, then break apart.
Ford feels as if he should be alarmed, but he isn’t. Fidds’ fingers slide between his, fitting perfectly. Ford bursts out laughing, flushed and trying to catch his breath. Fidds grins at him. Fiddleford feels an odd, buzzing kind of happiness as he holds Ford close. Ford smiles and those big brown eyes smile in that special way they do, too. Ford gives Fiddleford a dizzy hug. He feels this weird warm fuzzy feeling inside, unlike anything else he’s ever felt. He thinks about everything that is the brilliant Fiddleford McGucket. Everything he loves about him, the way he loves him just being there, the peculiar little qualities he possesses that he can’t quite put into words, that make him feel safe. Not everything has quite clicked yet, but he recognizes that whatever this is that they’ve found here together is something good. The thought I love Fiddleford suddenly smashes into him, which is rather overwhelming, but he’s strangely happy about it all.
“I love you, Ford.” says Fiddleford. Ford grabs either side of Fiddleford’s face and goes to pull him in for another kiss, but starts laughing again. He’s so overjoyed . He’s so stupidly, unbelievably happy that he’s on the verge of tears. He leans back a little to stop laughing and catch his breath, but doesn’t let go of him. One hand moves to his neck as he briefly reconnects their lips, then pulls back to smile at him.
“Ah, I… think I may be in love with you as well, Fiddleford.” he manages.
“That’s a distinct possibility,” Fiddleford says. That’s such a Ford way to react, he thinks. It’s perfect. He raises his eyebrows flirtatiously. “Though I’m thinkin’ it might require some more- mmm-” he leans forward to kiss his cheek, grinning against the soft skin of his face. Ford giggles. “- experimentation to confirm.”
“Do you have a hypothesis?” Ford asks, playing along. He playfully strokes Fidds’ chin as he might stroke his own if he were deep in thought, contemplating some mystery. This whole endeavor is a mystery in itself to him, to be frank.
Fiddleford pauses to think. “If I kiss Stanford Pines and he reciprocates the gesture, then he’s in love with me.”
“I believe we’ve already confirmed that hypothesis.”
“C’mon, smart guy, I’m disappointed in you.” Fiddleford makes a tsk, tsk, tsk noise and shakes his head. “We need to test it multiple times and get the same result in order to draw a firm conclusion. You of all people should know this.” He gently knocks on Ford’s forehead. “Anybody home in there? Where’d my favorite genius run off to?”
Ford laughs. “You’re absolutely right. Shame on me for not remembering basic scientific method.”
“You wanna perform that experiment, then?”
“Naturally.”
They’re kissing again. It’s just as nice as Ford always imagined it would be. Not that he’s ever imagined kissing Fiddleford. Okay, maybe he’s imagined it a few times. The alarm bells in his brain haven’t stopped ringing. This is queer. We’re queer. …I’m a queer. He doesn’t pull away, but the concept doesn’t seem quite right, still doesn’t seem real. Men are not supposed to kiss other men, but… here they are, so… he deduces that he’s definitely exhibiting homosexual behavior. He’s never been rebellious, but right now, it feels so good to break those unspoken rules. Social norms have never been his forte, anyway.
For Fiddleford, everything is fantastic. He’s anxious as well, but he’s too overwhelmed to care. His whole body is thrumming with energy and he feels in tune with the universe, as if he is vibrating at the same frequency as reality itself and reality has just struck a perfect harmony chord. He can’t help but smile into the kiss, his cheeks warm as he giggles. His fingers are buried in Ford’s hair and his other hand is gripping his back. One of Ford’s hands grips the front of his shirt as pulls it tightly toward him and the other rests on his side.
Ford pulls back and stares at the man in front of him, who he thinks is probably as beautiful as the myriad stars behind. He stands up in front of the car and pulls Fiddleford to his feet with him, then drapes his arms over Fiddleford’s shoulders as Fiddleford wraps his arms around him and dips him back. “How many times do you think we need to repeat the experiment?” Stanford asks.
Fiddleford smiles back, his face hovering above Ford’s. “Not sure.” He peppers kisses all over Ford’s face (which is still burning with a blush that he’s glad isn’t visible in the darkness) between words. “Hundreds, for sure. Maybe thousands.”
They’re about to kiss again, but Fiddleford pauses with his lips millimeters from Ford’s. He lifts him back up again and grabs his arm. “Can I tell you something, starboy?”
They join hands. “Yes?”
“I’m real glad that you’re my space oddity.”
Ford can feel his heart melting and dripping down through his ribcage like molten magma, warming his entire being. He smiles. Fiddleford gives him a playful shove and he stumbles back, dangerously close to the edge of the cliff. Fiddleford’s eyes widen and he rushes to grab him before he can fall off, pulling him successfully away from the edge and into his arms. He relaxes and gives a sigh of relief. “ Christ , Stanford, ‘ya gotta watch your step.”
Ford glances over his shoulder, apparently just now noticing the danger he’d been in. “Oh. Sorry.”
Fiddleford laughs. He runs the back of his hand down the side of Ford’s face. “Good God above, you can be so oblivious sometimes.” His voice softens. “It’s adorable.”
“You’re the one who pushed me, jerk.” Ford says softly, not really meaning it.
“You’re so cute.” Fidds simply kisses his cheek again, running his thumb over Ford’s knuckles as he does so. A little bubble bursts in the leaking magma chamber between Ford's lungs that might’ve been equivalent to his heart skipping a beat if it wasn’t currently liquid. Fiddleford takes his hand and brings it toward his mouth, then gently kisses his fingers. Ford’s veins instantly fill with honey. Ford kisses him, hoping Fiddleford won’t notice the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. He quickly wipes them away, then turns to stare out at the lake.
“How late is it?” Ford inquires.
“Dunno. ‘M sure it’s past midnight, though. Not even worth going back, really. ‘Ya wanna just camp out here?”
“Uh, I’m alright with that, but it’s a little chilly for my taste. Do you want me to grab a blanket? I have one in the trunk.”
“Sure.”
Ford grabs a red tie blanket from the back and slides back onto the hood besides Fidds. As they wrap themselves in the cozy plaid felt, Ford is suddenly very conscious of how close they are. He reminds himself that there’s no reason to be anxious. After all, it’s Fiddleford. Fiddleford, his friend. Fiddleford, who loves him, who won’t judge him for his fingers or his poor social skills. Ford closes his eyes and lets out a happy hum as Fiddleford snuggles closer. He buries his nose in Fidds’ hair and they shift and tangle themselves together, soft and warm and comfortable. Fidds nuzzles into his chest. Ford rests his head on top of Fiddleford’s and smiles.
“Good night, Ford.”
“Good night, Ford.”
The two share a giggle, then drift off to sleep.
Ford wakes up early in the morning when Fidds shifts slightly. Fidds is sitting up, leaning against the windshield, and Ford’s head is resting on his lap. Fidds is running his hands through his hair. It’s still dark out. Ford groggily lifts his head.
“Shh, shh.” comes a soothing voice from somewhere. “I’m sorry for waking you, darling. Just go right back to sleep, okay? Shh.” Ford groans and rests against Fidds, his friend’s chest serving as a pillow. Fidds loops an arm around him and holds his hand as Ford closes his eyes and lets sleep reclaim him once more.
The next time Ford awakens, the sun is just starting to rise. He blinks his eyes open, noticing his pillow is strangely warm. When his eyes finally focus on his surroundings and his brain quickly reconnects the dots, he jolts upright.
“Good morning, Stanford.” Fiddleford murmurs as he glances at him, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. Ford lets himself relax and buries his face back in Fiddleford’s shirt. Fiddleford is watching a couple of polaroids develop. Ford shifts slightly to get a look and sees that they’re photos of him sleeping, presumably taken before he woke up.
“You’re wasting my film,” Ford complains, his words slurred with drowsiness. He fumbles around and grabs a hold of Fiddleford’s free hand.
“No picture with you in it is a waste.” Fiddleford replies.
“I respectfully disagree, but thank you.” Ford grins and finally sits up, his hair ruffled and messy. Fiddleford smooths it down and tentatively kisses his forehead. Ford presses a shy kiss to his lips in response, though his mind is still reeling. There’s a lot to talk about and a lot to think about, but he is confident in the knowledge that Fiddleford will be there for him through all of it. Ford yawns and stretches. He slides off of the hood and opens his car door. “Shall we?”
Fiddleford tilts his head at him, his half-lidded eyes and contented smile betraying his amusement. “So we shall, partner.”
“Partner?”
Both of them take their seats and close the car doors. Fiddleford takes Ford’s hand. “Partner.”