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Fiddleford doesn’t know why he decided to go to the bar tonight, or why he decided to walk up to the cutie in the thin, damaged hoodie. Usually he’s the blushing type, the type to admire from a distance, but there was something about this guy that was just… right. Something about the shape of his jaw, the colour of his eyes, the way his mouth formed around Fiddleford’s name.
Stanley, the man says his name is.
“Well, Stanley,” Fiddleford purrs, drunk out of his mind and completely prepared to blast this night out of his head, “what’re you doin’ tonight?”
Stanley takes a swig, and messily wipes his mouth on his arm, “I’m gonna kill myself.”
“Oh,” Fiddleford says. He’s not sure what else he could say. Maybe in another time, a few months ago, he woulda tried to talk this fella out of it, make him see the light, or see that there’s something past through all this darkness.
But he would be a hypocrite, saying all that, trying to convince a man to let his life keep going on when Fiddleford is slowly chipping away at his own.
His mama didn’t raise him a hypocrite, so he says, “alright, that’s too bad,” and takes a swig. Then, with the confidence of a man who knows he can forget anything he wants, he says, “can I watch?”
Stanley stares at him in minute shock, but instead of socking Fiddleford in the face, he barks out a laugh, harsh and wrong and right, “sure! Yeah! Fuck it, why not?” he downs the rest of his drink, “welp,” he slaps Fiddleford’s shoulder, “c’mon man.”
“Oh, uh, jus’ hold on a minute!” he stammers, getting the rest of his drink down. He hadn’t expected the man to be this eager, and a little bit of fear cuts through the drunkenness, but it shouldn’t really, because he’s going to forget about all this anyhow.
Stanley takes him to his car-- an ugly, beat up, yellow thing. Fiddleford woulda made a point not to comment if Stanley didn’t spend the whole time complaining about the piece of shit that it was.
“Holy shit, it can barely even handle goin’ uphill! This isn’t even that steep! My baby, she could take me through the grand canyon without missin’ a fucking beat.”
“Why not take it, then?” Fiddleford wonders, “don’t you want your last drive to be a good one?”
“Nah, I wouldn’t wanna put the Stanleymobile through that. I've had her since I was a kid, and she’s been with me through thick an’ thin. She’s my house, even! Was,” Stanley shakes his head, “nah, this piece of junk is better off.”
“Who’s gonna get her?” Fiddleford asks, half hoping that the stranger will give it to him in his drunken stupor. He’s very curious to see what a car named the ‘Stanleymobile’ looks like.
“My brother,” the man says, then lets out a rough laugh, like he’s just told the world’s funniest joke.
Something about that settles in Fiddleford’s brain, “your brother…” he murmurs, “I swear I've seen you ‘round before… you feel so familiar.”
“I have one of those faces,” the man says, though Fiddleford wouldn’t describe him as ordinary looking at all. A strong, square jaw, with a body to match leaves an impression. Fiddleford has the feeling that if he threw everything he had at Stanley, the man wouldn’t even budge. For all that he’s built like a brick wall, there’s an undeniable undercurrent of softness, one that’s neglected, and worn. Fiddleford wants to care for it, bring it to thrive under his hands, but he can’t. The man won’t be alive for long, after all. He’s a little disappointed that Stanley wasn’t interested in stopping by a motel on the way here.
“Here we are,” Stanley smiles, getting out of the car. At least he’s facin’ this with good spirits, though that may be how most suicidal folks deal with the end of their lives. Fiddleford’s sister once tried to off herself, and it’s one of those things that his family don’t talk about, but he remembers what woulda been her last day. How happy she was.
Perhaps it's like how he feels when he’s about to rid himself of a memory. The joy in the knowledge that the pain tormenting him will soon end.
It’s beautiful up here. The spring wind whistles gently through the trees, falling off the endless cliff face and joining the waterfall. It’s a fine place to die.
“How’re you gonna do it?” Fiddleford asks, figuring that appropriate questions aren’t a part of his and Stanley’s dynamic. As predicted, Stanley doesn’t take offence to the question at all.
“Yaknow, I've been thinkin’ ‘bout that a long time,” he’s digging through the boot of his car, dragging something heavy out that Fiddleford doesn’t care to look at, “first I thought about jus’ shootin’ myself-- quick and easy, right? But that’s too much gore-- and who’d find me? Same with hangin’, though worse, ‘cause it’s slower, and the face isn’t destroyed,” he grunts, and pushes the heavy thing into the driver’s seat, “so I thought-- hey, I’d been driving my whole adult life, drivin’ off this cliff’ll be poetic as fuck. And there’ll be an explosion! Boom!” Fiddleford laughs at the way he throws his arms back, almost losing his balance in his fervor, “and if there’s a fire-- a good one, then I won’t be recognisable. This is-- god, Fidds, it’s so goddamn perfect,” he smiles up at Fiddleford, looking a little manic, “I've been nothing but a worthless fuck up my whole life, this is the perfect way for Stanley pines to die. Who’s gonna fucking question it? Not the cops, not my parents, and not my brother.”
Something isn’t quite adding up, but Fiddleford is drunk, and the wind feels bitingly cold on his face, and the view from up here is beautiful.
There’s a glugging sound. Fiddleford turns to see Stanley putting gasoline all over the car, “I can see why you don’ want the Stanleymobile here for this.”
“Yeah! See, he gets it,” Stanley nudges the humanoid figure in the car seat. Is it actually a person? There’s something wrong about it, but it’s too dark to see, “alright. Time for the deed. Step away from the cliff edge, Fidds.”
Fiddleford blinks, and belatedly steps out of the way as Stanley gets behind the car and starts pushing it, step by step towards the edge.
The old farm boy in him wants to step in and help him push. The man who used to care wants to stop him and ask him what the hell he’s doing. Fiddleford stands and watches, as the car goes over the edge, and Stanley almost goes with it, stumbling and catching himself just in time to see the car land in the forest in a beautiful explosion that sends a thrill throughout his body.
Oh yeah, he likes explosions himself, doesn’t he?
Stanley doesn’t jump and scream in joy the way most who go out of their way to create an explosion do. He stays where he is, crouched too close to the edge, a tenseness in his body that wasn’t there before. Or did Fiddleford just not see? Or perhaps, he simply wasn’t allowed to see it.
“There, you worthless bastard,” Stanley bites out, almost too quiet to be heard, “die and be forgotten.”
There’s a long pause, and something in Fiddleford’s heart pangs. There’s clearly something that he’s misunderstood, here. Maybe he should be a good man, and do something. If there’s anything to be done.
He steps forward as Stanley stands up, watching him light a cigarette, “Stanley,” he murmurs, watching the fire blaze beneath them, eating up the forest, “what was that all about?”
Stanley takes a drag, “Stanley? Name’s Stanford. Easy mistake.”
“Oh,” Fiddleford blinks, “right. Easy mistake.”
He supposes it doesn’t matter. He won’t remember this in the morning.