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The cold bite of winter had settled into the air, crisp and quiet as the sound of a heavy pair of boots made their way towards the mansion.
Fiddleford hasn't been responding to his messages. He's been acting strange all week. The brilliant and charming comments that usually came seconds after seeing his texts had completely disappeared, turning into simple and quick answers, dry even, that wasn't like him. This unusual behavior kept growing periodically until one day, he stopped responding at all. Stanford worried.
"I'm telling you, Stanley, something happened. Fiddleford always answers my messages." He said, putting on a knitted scarf on his neck, courtesy of his great-niece, the bright colors contrasted with the dull ones of his usual attire.
"Maybe the old man fell asleep or lost his phone, I don't know." He grunted from the couch as he vaguely watched his brother struggle with the fabric.
"It's been 3 days, Stanley. If that had happened, he would have told me. We also sent letters to each other, he knows that." Stanley sighed.
"Of course you send letters to each other, only you would be the kind of people who would do that." He ignored the look Stanford gave him. "it's snowing like hell out there, are you really going all the way to the mansion with that weather?"
"I've endured harsher climates than this. I'm going to get to the bottom of this and I'm not going back until I do." He opened the door slightly before turning to look at his brother. "Tell Jesus and Melody that I won't be there for dinner."
"Yeah, sure. Try not to get buried in the snow on the way, the kids need their other grunkle alive for Hanukkah."
He paused in the entrance, letting the scanners rule him out as an intruder. He remembered when Fiddleford had installed them, claiming that this way, no vandal could paint any of his walls. Ford thought it wasn't necessary, but, on the other hand, he felt proud to be one of the few people that the AI did not identify as a danger. When it detected him as safe, he just continued on his way to the doorway.
The mansion was eerily still, he brushed snow off his coat before stepping inside, calling out. “Fiddleford? Are you here?”
The only reply was the faint creak of the floorboards and the distant sound of wind outside. It was dark and empty. He wandered through the house until he found Fiddleford in the living room, sitting in front of the frosted window. The lights were off and his silhouette was cast against the pale glow of the snowy landscape, tinting the mansion a blue-grey, very different from the cozy orange from the fireplace he was used to.
“Fidds.” Ford began softly, his voice carrying both relief and concern.
Fiddleford startled slightly but didn’t turn around. “Ford.” he greeted, his tone lacking its usual warmth.
Ford frowned, stepping closer. “You didn’t reply to my texts. I worried, I thought something had happened to you...”
“I’ve been fine.” He replied, his voice tight.
Ford paused, surprised by this new behavior. Fiddleford never talked to him like that. He took a tentative step closer. “Are you sure? You don’t seem fine." No answer. "Fidds." He pressed. “What’s wrong?”
Fiddleford sighed, his shoulders slumping. His eyes reflected tiredness and slight annoyance. “It’s nothin’, just… seasonal mood, I reckon.”
“Seasonal mood?" Ford gave him a confused look. "Fiddleford, you love winter." The older one went silent for a moment. He continued. "You used to drag me out of the basement every time it snowed, you always said it’d be a crime to waste a snow day indoors. We’d build those awful, lopsided snowmen and pelt each other with snowballs that winter.”
A faint, bittersweet smile flickered across Fiddleford’s face. It disappeared as soon as he showed it. He turned away from the window, shaking his head. “This is different, Ford.”
"How is it different?" He got no response. Ford stepped closer and sat beside him, his voice softer now. “Fidds, please. I can tell something is disturbing you, you can trust me."
"I know that."
"Then tell me." He paused, remembering the talk his niece gave him. "...but only if you want to." He heard a soft laugh.
"Those kids have been teaching ya some things, haven't they?"
Ford smiled. "I guess I'll never stop learning."
There was a long silence, broken only by the faint howl of wind outside. Fiddleford’s hands trembled slightly as he held onto the window frame.
Finally, his voice cracked. "Is just..." He shook his head, trying to find the words, Ford waited for him. “Winter… it ain’t the same no more.” He paused, swallowing hard. “Used to love it, but… it became a buncha sour memories now.”
Ford’s heart sank. “What do you mean?”
Fiddleford exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand over his face. "It brings me back to those years. Winters ain't magical when you got no home to shelter you from the frost, Ford. They were cruel. Got sick more times than I can count, 'guess that's what you get when you bury yourself on the dump, but it was better than dealing with snowstorms… those weren’t fun. Hypothermia don’t care if you’re a genius or a fool, Stanford. They were a death sentence.”
Ford’s chest tightened as the words spilled out, raw and heavy. He never really thought about it that deeply. As he drifted from one dimension to another, Fiddleford spent 30 years trapped in Gravity Falls, homeless and with no one to care about him. The tiny hut that he had built with garbage didn't seem to be able to withstand winters like these. He swallowed as he felt the burden of guilt again. How had his friend survived all these years?
“I... I almost didn’t make it once.” Fiddleford continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Fever dreams are interesting things, you know? I thought I was back on the farm. It was... warm, you were there, my Tater-Tot, my family, and Em too... I couldn't remember their faces back then, but I know it was them." He sighed. "When I woke up, I was in a burrow. It wasn't... It wasn't the best moment for me, but at least that's how I met Ada." The ghost of a smile crossed his face. Ford looked towards the couch, the raccoon that lay there was sleeping peacefully. "When Tater came... It wasn't that awful. He didn't stay with me, but he would leave me blankets and medicine when I wasn't there. It was the least he could do, after all, I couldn't recognize him until a few years ago."
"He is a good kid." Stanford said.
"He is." Memories of his son running away in fear from the dumpster came to his mind, the young figure was being attacked with stones, broken bottles and anything he could find, while his aggressor let out an awful scream, threatening and cursing at him like he was a criminal. He didn't remember the things he said, but hated that voice. If only I had stopped at that moment to see the pain in his eyes... "Every time winter rolls around, I can’t stop thinkin’ about it. All those years, those nights, I-" He grunted under his breath and shook his head again. "Is just... too much, it's stupid to think about it now, I'm better, it shouldn't bother me but-”
“No.” Ford cut in firmly, closing the space between them. “It’s not stupid.” He placed a hand on his. “You went through hell, Fidds. It’s not something you can just brush off. The fact that you endured all of that… it’s incredible.”
The other laughed weakly. "It's nothing compared to what you went through."
"We're not talking about me right now." He gave him a playful smile. "My journey is different from yours. Whether I wanted it or not, I had beings on my path that helped me. I... I wasn't entirely alone, it's not the same." He sighed with sadness. "I'm sorry you had to go through this. If only I had known this would happen-" He cut himself before Fiddleford could, he tried again. "I just... admire you, a lot." He took his hands. "Because every time I see you, I see a man who not only had the strength, but the courage in his being to keep living, someone who fought tooth and nail to get here. You're admirable, Fidds."
Fiddleford looked down. “But I don't feel admirable, Ford.” His eyes began to glaze over, he choked back a sob. "I'm tired." His voice cracked, a whimper escaping as tears began to spill. Stanford pulled him into a tight hug, wrapping his arms around him as if shielding him from the weight of the memories.
He doesn't remember when was the last time he held Fiddleford like that, back then, the older one was tall enough to cover his entire body to the point that it seemed like he was the one who was comforting Ford.
Fiddleford clung to him and buried his face in his chest, the choked wheezing muted by the fabric.
He had always been a silent crier, even the night they got drunk decades ago and he started crying out of nowhere, Stanford saw the thick tears and the pain on his face, but he never made a sound other than a labored breathing. He remembered the feeling of wanting to cradle his face and wipe away those tears, but all he could offer was a hug, even then, Fiddleford hugged him the same way he did now. Desperate and needy. His hands still crumpled the folds of his clothes from his tight grip; he didn't care at this point, he stopped caring a long time ago.
Eventually, the tears subsided, leaving Fiddleford feeling lighter, if a bit weary. His body relaxed and his breathing began to normalize but still held Ford close, whose hands had moved to caressing his thinning hair at some point.
There was a comfortable silence for a few minutes until Ford finally spoke. "You are the bravest person I know, Fiddleford, you always have been, even more than me. You always had a brilliant mind and a strong heart that could find a way out of anything. But you don't have to do that anymore, I promise. From now on, you won't have to carry it alone, I'll be with you whenever you need me, and not just me, your family too. You understand?" He nodded, Stanford kissed the side of his head, just above the scar on his temple, smiling gently. “It's... starting to get colder, how about I make us some hot cocoa?”
Fiddleford giggled weakly in his jersey, he pulled softly, sniffling but smiling again. “Last time you tried that, we ended up with somethin’ that tasted like burnt marshmallows and despair.”
Ford grinned. “I’ll try not to burn it this time. Consider it an experiment.”
Despite himself, Fiddleford chuckled. “All right, darlin’. Lead the way.”
They settled on the couch later, Fiddleford lit the fire and Ford brought blankets on his arms for both of them with mugs of hot chocolate in hand, the place started to feel warm. Fiddleford sipped cautiously, raising an eyebrow at the flavor. “Still tastes a bit like despair.”
Stanford smirked. “It’s an acquired taste.” Fiddleford laughed and leaned against him, warmth spreading through his chest. He sighed in adoration. “I love you, Fiddleford.” He murmured. "You know that, right?"
"Well, ya moved yer ass to the kitchen for me, I think that's enough evidence.” He moved to give him a soft kiss on the lips, Ford wrapped his arms around him as they watched the snow fall. "I know, I love ya too, sugah."