#[-*may wanna msg selfrp tho since this blog-- I don't really check often--*-]

[thedoublingcenter]

College Days in a Haze

[ @kingofthecon​ || Pulled from here!]

Stanley wasn’t about to question it or his imagination’s penchant for weird things. It must have been a side effect of trying to bring light to his and Ford’s childhood. Fat lot of good that did him, considering that he and his brother were no longer on speaking terms. It was funny and stupid how much he thought of his brother when he made it clear that he didn’t want to even be in the same zip code as him. His brother was self-centered despite how self-conscious he was. It was laughable, really–and there he went thinking about Ford. Ugh, feelings were stupid. He was supposed to be holding a grudge. He was also supposed to be helping out his inner weird with a Valentine’s day present. Yeah, that was apparently his life at the moment. “Yeah well, I’ll jus’ take your word for it.” Mainly because he didn’t know WHAT was going on at the moment. Setting the con-artistry and…other questionable comments aside, he decided to take everything he was hearing with a grain of salt even if he wasn’t one to judge. After all he’d been sort of fixated with the occasional dead animal in his childhood. He’d even told Ford all about the dead rat he’d seen floating in a bucket once. He’d been sort of fascinated by things like that, though that’d all been squashed when Shanklin had been hit by a car. He’d been attached and watching something close to him die had hurt. Some people dealt with death better than he did. He knew about taxidermy, courtesy of his twin, but that hadn’t made him feel better because it cost money and their Pa didn’t even want to dish out cash for his sons let alone a pet that Stanley wasn’t supposed to have to begin with… “Maybe hold off on the heart for when ya get hitched or somethin’?” He wanted to say never, but honestly whatever weird stuff was going on it probably would be rude NOT to present a still-beating heart after a certain amount of time with them dating? Is that what this was? He was assuming that since it WAS Valentine’s Day that they were at least, on some level, more than friends? W-why was he putting more thought…nope, the sooner he got this over with the sooner he could pretend that none of this weirdness, minus his time well spent with Fiddleford, out of his system. No need to get invested. “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll pass on that invite, Tri-Guy. But maybe during Halloween?” A time that was appropriate for wanting to be freaked out despite the absurdity that came from people dressing up and trying to scare the mess out of someone i.e. one of his favorite holidays ever. “I wouldn’t mind teaming up for some sort of haunted house–no! A hut where dumb teens get murdered for making stupid choices like running up the stairs where they’ve blocked themselves from getting out of two story building without twisting their ankle or breakin’ their leg or something.” Just thinking about it…the scams he could pull, the suckers he could relieve of their hard earned cash. Maybe there was something to this whole con artist thing? …nah. “Wait, I actually helped?” The surprise was more so because it seemed like a really basic idea with all the things laid out in front of him like that. Maybe it was some sort of moral or lesson…that he shouldn’t overthink things because sometimes the most obvious solution was just as good as something super convoluted. It would certainly tie into him trying to talk with Fiddleford. He should just be himself. That’s what he was wanting to do when he came to college after all. He wanted to get out of Ford’s shadow and be himself, and yet here he was incapable of trying to just…talk to his crush like he had with Carla. It shouldn’t have mattered if Fidds was a guy or not. People were people? “Eesh, I do NOT want to know the story behind the soggy animal purse.” Luckily the information wasn’t coming anyway, and he was due for a wake up call since Mr. Top-Hatted Triangle was dismissing him with some…pretty interesting…conspira– Stanley sat up with a start, momentarily forgetting where the heck he was which was very unfortunate since he was sitting at his desk. Joining the waking world was disorienting already, but still being slightly sick didn’t help matters especially when he toppled over and onto the floor taking his chair with him. It clattered, loudly, and the most he could do was groan out a curse that might have impressed his old man. He had no idea what time it was nor did he have any idea of whether or not Fidds was even in their shared dorm. Hopefully it was early enough for him to be in class and not late at night like he hoped it was. He fumbled for much longer than he would have if he was completely sober and managed to right the chair before fumbling his way towards the bathroom - hand in the bird nest he called his hair while muttering about weird dreams though there was a pleasant feeling in his chest because he certainly remembered talking to Fiddleford, even if he didn’t really recall what it was he’d said…though he did vaguely recall laughter…? Weird dreams indeed.

Of course, Fiddleford had already been up for a few minutes- but seeing Stanley suddenly jolt awake had nearly caused him to ram his head into the wall as he started, words just barely catching in his throat out of surprised confusion. He finally managed to regain his bearings, re-adjusting his ruined glasses long enough to see Stanley basically bumbling towards the door to their shared bathroom. He spotted the chair, heard the mutterings.. Weird dreams? His own mind was still filled with fleeting images- many of them involving Stanley, and-- well-- a few... Things... That had his cheeks coloring as he thought back on them.

But even as he tried to grasp those memories, they started to flicker and waver- ghosts in the dead of night. He turned his head, spotting his alarm clock- which read a very painful ‘3:33 A. M.’. Early.. Very, very early. Too early for his first class, but late enough that he didn’t want to go back to sleep... But it was tempting, even as his memories grew foggier, fainter with each growing second. He was trying to grasp them, but they continued evading his grasp- dashing into the dump for thoughts as he tried (in vain) to hold on. That was when Fiddleford finally stood, mouth still moving slightly to try to figure out something to say.

“Didja have ah... ‘Weird dream’... Too?” He wasn’t even sure what he could qualify it as. Thoughts dashed through his head every time he tried to think back- a confession, a kiss, a steady light in the core of his very being that grew at the mere sensation of what he thought he remembered. He wanted to go back, but a paralyzing fear held him in the present. “... Ah jus’... Ah jus’ woke up...” He breathed out. Was Stan even listening? Should he even be trying? He wasn’t entirely sure.

One thing was certain: he probably wasn’t going to get any sleep the rest of the night. It was too late for anything more than a power-nap, given how alive he felt. It was strange, his body was all at once chilled to the bone with exhaustion and wired down to every last nerve with energy. He wanted to run and scream, and at the same time pass out on the bed and wake up in two weeks.

It occurred to him then that he probably shouldn’t be trying to ask Stan what was going on- after all, the other was going to the bathroom, clearly- conversation was probably the last thing on his mind. So Fiddleford slumped a bit in his bed, staring at his banjo resting beside the bed, the strings waiting for a good pluck while he tried to figure out what to make of his jumbled mind. There were only faint impressions now- but enough that he could piece together a general idea. A general idea around Stan, around love- and the thought worried him. Had something manifested in his dreams? Had he just... Had a wish-fulfillment dream? Maybe a nightmare? It would explain the fight-or-flight response he was feeling... If it could be called that.

Faded afterimages of sunlight drifted from the curtained window (they really needed thicker curtains), the faint blue a reminder of just how early it truly was. Although really, ‘early’ and ‘late’ were subjective at best... He readjusted his glasses, before silently taking them off with a hint of a laugh. He hadn’t needed to adjust them... But it had been done out of habit. He looked them over, the cracks still quite visible- so small, so hard to spot from a distance... But up close... Clear words and images.

“... Di’ som’ne break m’glasses?...”