All is Fair in Love and War - Chapter 1 - Anonymous (2025)

Chapter Text

Stanford had quickly and methodically moved into his dorm within thirty minutes of finding the room number. Even if this wasn’t his first (or second. or third…) college choice, he was determined to make it his new home. One without the pesky tasks of dealing with family.

This library is a joke.

Ford snapped another book closed. These were the same topics his high school collection had. It was all introductory.

He shoved whatever was in his hands back onto the shelves and strode over to the librarian. “Are there any advanced books on theoretical physics, mechanical engineering, or calculus three?”

She blinked at him. “Um. Check the second floor?”

Ford nodded and turned to speed up the stairs two steps at a time. He hadn’t thought that the difference in floor levels would be indicative of intelligence levels as well, but it makes sense. The second story was quieter and Ford immediately saw a designated science section.

It was three AM. Ford had finally snapped out of his studying haze. These books were, thankfully, more complex than the ones downstairs. He quickly lost track of time and only realized how late it was when the librarian had to kick him out due to the closing hours.

He apologized and quickly left for his room. The campus was fairly lit at night, but he did notice his favorite constellation above head just before he entered the dormitory. He was only a few steps from the door when he rationalized that his roommate must be asleep by now. Oh well, he’ll just have to meet him tomorrow.

The door creaked slightly even as he opened it as quietly as he could. Ford couldn’t make out much of his roommate’s appearance in the dark, but the room itself was organized enough. It seemed they would get along just fine.

Ford quickly changed into his sleepwear and crawled into bed. He looked forward to what tomorrow held, which ironically kept him from falling asleep.

Ford’s alarm went off at 7 AM and he was out the door before his roommate had even opened his eyes. He raced to the library for his new schedule. He was practically skirting corners to get to the distribution desk.

As the first one there, he was able to quickly grab his file and start mapping the paths between classrooms on a drawing he made of the campus. He visited each room and peeked in to evaluate the best seat before moving onto the next. Classes didn’t start until eight thirty, but he prepared to be seated and ready for the first one by eight sharp.

Luckily, he located his entire week’s room locations with fifteen minutes to spare, giving him just enough time to grab something from the dining hall and eat it on the go.

Man. He was so ready for this.

So, of course, that’s when everything needed to go wrong.

First, Ford ran into someone just as he was about to leave the cafeteria with his muffin. It was his roommate. The man stumbled back and tried to apologize, but Ford was already rushing back to the food bar to grab a replacement. Which is when he realized there were none of the flavors he liked left on the shelf.

The next refill would arrive too late for him to run to the classroom and pick the seat he wanted. Ford grimaced and chose the blueberry muffin, resigning himself to picking out the fruits from inside one by one.

With the replacement breakfast acquired, he rushed over to his first class and thankfully sat where he intended to. This turned out to be a bad spot when immediately after he finished his (very crumbled) muffin, a group of noisy fraternity brothers pushed and shoved their way to the seats just next to Ford.

And—eugh—tried to talk to him.

Just as he successfully avoided talking with them (he simply brought out a physics book and they all avoided him like the plague), a flood of students washed in through the door, bringing with them their own distractions.

The unseriousness that some of these people exhibited was nerve grating. He’s lucky that they all moved to sit furthest from the front.

That was the case until his roommate came in. The only open spots left were directly behind Ford. He sighed, resigned to his fate, and watched as the man started walking towards him. It’s fine. This morning was… an accident. Probably.

He’s an alright person. …Probably.

The teacher started class before his roommate could try to make any awkward small talk. As attendance was being called, Ford learned his name was Fiddleford McGucket. The irony of two “ford”s ending up in the same dorm wasn’t lost on him. Illogically, he felt his opinion of the other shift toward “bearable”.

It took all of ten minutes for that view to crash and burn.

“As an icebreaker, we should go around pitching all of our most interesting theories!” Their teacher was grasping at straws, trying to keep everyone’s attention. “They don’t need to be proved—in fact, it’d be more intriguing if they weren’t! Let’s start at the front row and make our way back.”

The neanderthals sitting to Ford’s right sounded off first. One of the smarter idiots name-dropped an elementary theorem that had the others dogpiling in agreement and enthusiasm.

Ford noted the study of Nikola Tesla’s perpetually generating electric coil and tied that into his rough draft of a never ending energy creation machine.

His teacher could only smile in confusion and skip to the next person.

“Well, I ain’t too sure how provable ma theory is.” Oh god. Ford’s roommate had an accent. “But I’ve been runnin’ the calculations and it seems that we’re livin’ in a hologram! Or, well, holographic world. The best comparison is the digitality of yer TV screens—”

Ford snorted. It was compulsory. There’s a difference between intellectually-derived theories and being flat out crazy.

A few more giggles echoed around the room after Ford’s outburst. The man behind him shrunk into his seat. The only words he spoke for the rest of class was a quick, “Bathroom, professor,” before he fled the lecture hall thirty minutes earlier than the bell would allow.

Ford knew this mentality his roommate displayed would only drag him down. He vowed to stay far away and hoped Fiddleford would cut his losses and leave before it disrupted Ford’s own studies.

Fiddleford remembered sitting down with his parents at the old dining room table. He remembered drumming his fingers against the mahogany wood anxiously. He remembered the warm sunlight streaming in from outside, the tick of the grandfather clock, and the heavy smell of coffee.

“What is it, Fidds? Ya look like you’ve seen a ghost!” His mothers voice was chipper as always, and she smiled at him. He looked down at the opened envelope in his hands. He had read its contents twenty times over, and still couldn’t believe it. Fiddleford found himself wondering how his parents would react, but before he could think himself into paralysis, he spoke.

“S…Somethin’ came in the mail today.”

He slid the letter across the table. He nervously watched his mother read it, and smiled when her face lit up with pride.

“Heavens to Betsy!“ She exclaimed, sliding the letter to her husband. “Ya always were the smartest of the family!”

Fiddleford’s father was less enthused. He swallowed dryly as the man had started to read through the letter. After a few agonizing moments, he set the paper down and picked up his coffee. He’d always drink it black. He took a sip and regarded his son sternly.

“Your grandfather was a farmer. His father before him was a farmer. Y’ain’t goin’ to some fancy college. Yer stayin’ here, kid. And when I’m dead, yer taking over this farm.” He took another sip of coffee, folding up the letter and sliding it back to Fiddleford callously.

Fiddleford knew he shouldn’t argue with his father’s decisive tone, but he felt anger stirring within him. This wasn’t some trivial disagreement about the farm—this was Fiddleford’s future. He dreamed of college—of equations on chalkboards, long nights in the library, and intellectual discussions. As much as he loved his family, all he’d have here were pigs, plants and dirt.

Fiddleford took a deep breath, meeting his father’s eyes. “Ya don’t get to make ma decisions for me.”

“I do when I’m payin’ for ‘em.”

Fiddleford turned to his mother. When he was growing up, it was always ‘Listen to yer father, sweetie.’ or ‘Yer dad’s right, ya know!’

Whenever the two men would butt heads—which was usually every day—she’d almost never hear Fiddleford out. But he hoped that today, just this once, she’d side with him. And to his surprise, she did.

She reached over and placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “Honey, we can afford it. I think he should go. An educated man in the family could help the farm in the long run.”

Fiddleford remembered feeling hopeful, and in the back of his mind he prayed that his father would try to understand.

His father looked to him, then to the letter, then back to him. “Yer serious about this, kid?”

Fiddleford nodded.

His father let out a long, grumbly sigh. “Okay. Pack yer bags and get out.”

Through his harsh words, Fiddleford could see the slightest stoic smile on his face. That’s how he knew, despite their constant arguments, that his father truly did believe in him.

He left that week. He remembered his parents standing outside and waving him goodbye. And then, before he knew it, he arrived at Backupsmore. Sure, it was a little run-down, definitely not a prestigious college, but it was his only option.

Everything had been going so well. He had moved in just fine, found his way to class without getting lost. But of course, it all had to come tumbling down when Fiddleford’s roommate entered the picture.

Stanford Pines was his name. It almost seemed like Stanford had been avoiding him all day. They hadn’t met each other in the dorms at all. Fiddleford crashed into him this morning and tried to say something, but Stanford ran off before he could. Fiddleford didn’t take it personally—he assumed that the man was just in a rush.

But then there was that disastrous class. Stanford had so callously disregarded Fiddleford’s idea, despite his own theory being blatantly mathematically impossible! The disrespect! If Stanford hadn’t laughed at his idea, maybe he’d have gotten the chance to actually explain it. Maybe those students wouldn’t have laughed at him, and maybe he wouldn’t be storming away from the lecture hall in tears right now.

He could barely see where he was going—his glasses had fogged up and tears blurred his vision. He noticed a restroom sign in the corner of his eye, and turned on his heels towards it. He shouldered open the door and threw his bag to the side in a huff. Gritting his teeth, he walked up to the mirror and grabbed the sides of the sink.

Fiddleford hunched over the basin, catching his breath, letting his tears fall down the dark drain. He wished he could crawl inside it so he wouldn’t have to deal with any of this. He tore his glasses off his face, shoved them in his pocket, and reached for the rusty handle to turn the faucet on. There was a concerning sputter and creak from the pipes, but a pathetic stream of water still came fourth.

With shaky hands, Fiddleford gathered the cool water and splashed it on his face. He let the cold seep into his nerves and wash away his anger. He took a deep breath, wiping his face dry with the sleeve of his sweater. He looked at himself in the mirror.

Growing up, he’d often work on the farm at night, when everyone else was asleep. It was quiet. Even the pigs were tucked away in the barns. He’d wander the wheat fields with a sickle, cutting the seedheads so he could hang them to dry in the barn. He would harvest the corn and soybeans, too. But his favorite crop to harvest were the blueberries—mostly because he got to eat a few and nobody would know. Working at night was a good way to avoid the blazing heat of the Tennessee sun, but it was always way too quiet. And even more lonely.

Somehow, in the bathroom of BackUpsMore college, he felt more alone than he had on the farm. Because on those nights, at least there were stars to keep him company. Now he only had the flickering fluorescent lights and broken soap dispensers to soothe him. A degree from a college that made him this miserable wouldn’t get him anywhere in the grand scheme of things. He looked at himself in the cloudy old mirror.

How horrible would it be if he went home?

He considered the thought. Being laughed out of the classroom on the first day did not exactly make him feel welcome. But he tried to imagine what his parents would say to him when he arrived back home, looking like a kicked puppy. He tried to think of what he’d say to his father, and of how disappointed his mother would be. And he knew that leaving was not an option.

He sniffled and grabbed his bag off the floor, before speed-walking right into another student. She stumbled back and blinked at him, confused.

“Umm… this is the women’s bathroom.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

A concerned glance. “…Are you okay?”

Ford had finished his classes for the day without any more interruptions. He did notice his roommate in a few other lecture halls, but neither had initiated a conversation. The day ended strong with a fairly smart professor teaching a class that Fiddleford wasn’t in.

Ford had left with a smile on his face. He was excited to finally start on this year’s work. The classes hadn’t actually assigned him homework—no, he just heard that there were research projects planned and he wanted to get some things in action now.

One of the teachers mentioned a metal and wood workshop for “science” students (the college didn’t differentiate much further) and Ford planned to use it to its full capabilities. He just needed to draw some mechanical diagrams in the calm and quiet of his—

Someone was yelling in his dorm. Ford’s eye twitched as he opened the door. His roommate’s puffy red eyes snapped to Ford’s. He was shaking and panting with a few leftover moving boxes thrown to the floor, their contents spilling out.

Ford’s lip curled at the sight and apparently that was the wrong thing to do.

Fiddleford was inches away from him now, pointing a finger directly into his face. “Yer nasty attitude ain’t gonna make ma life a livin’ hell, ya hear?” His throat constricted as tears started to pool in his eyes. “Ma told me to always have forgiveness in ma heart, but Stanford Pines, yer wearin’ it thin. We both got into this college and by god will I make it through.”

Ford’s eyebrows furrowed. “I’ll have you know, I was scouted by West Coast Tech. It seems your only option was this college.”

“Ya still ended up here though. Yer not as high and mighty as ya think. In fact, we’re in the same college, major, dorm—if ya really were all that yer braggin’ about, how’d ya end up in the same place as me?” His words cut deep but his gaze tore into his soul. Fiddleford found something in Ford that he had tried to bury deep, deep down. It made his hair stand on end as alarms went off in his head.

Ford could only take a step back at the audacity this man had. “I won’t let some—some hick try to—”

Fiddleford slapped him. The shock stunned him just long enough to hear, “It’s clear ya never got taught manners,” before he found himself alone in the dorm room.

That was—who did he think—the nerve of that man! Ford’s hands clenched and relaxed as he calmed himself down. It didn’t matter. It didn’t. Ford would just be the better person and prove how he was certainly “all that” by simply being the best in class. He was already planning to do so, but the look on Fiddleford’s face when the rankings come out—that will be entirely for his benefit.

As Fiddleford swung open the door and stepped inside his dorm, he could only pray that his roommate hadn’t gotten there first. Thankfully, there was no sign of him.

Fiddleford shuffled over to his bed and sat down with a sigh. His gaze flickered to the banjo propped up against his desk, and he considered playing a tune to take his mind off things. But instead, he flopped onto the bed and found himself too lazy to get back up again. It felt like he had just run a marathon.

He stared up at the blank ceiling. When Fiddleford arrived to BackUpsMore, he was more confident in his own abilities than he had been in years. After all this time, he’d be somewhere where he could truly thrive. He thought he was ready for anything. Apparently he wasn’t.

On the way to his dorm, he’d noticed countless students who had settled in just fine. A lot of them already had friend groups and study partners. Even the professors seemed content. If so many people had a successful first day, then it must be Fiddleford who was the outlier. He wondered if he just wasn’t as fit for college life as he had thought. He had felt so prepared when he left, but he must have done something wrong.

He sat up as something in his mind clicked.

He looked towards the other half of the room. It was inconspicuous enough. Books in neat piles. Folders and notepads. Pencils in a mug. But that half of the room belonged to Stanford Pines.

Fiddleford stood, pacing around the room. He felt his heartbeat quickening.

A roommate could offer many tactical advantages when it came to college social life. A pair of roommates could become friends and talk to another pair, which could snowball into an entire friend group. Even if those two roommates are social outcasts, they could still interact with each other, which could lead to a lifelong friendship. It would be mutually beneficial. A roommate was supposed to be the first friend that someone makes in college, after all.

Fiddleford closed his eyes and thought.

Let x = roommate one

And y = roommate two

x + y = A good college experience.

A positive and a positive = a positive. All those people in the halls with their friend groups probably had good roommates.

Even x + -y = a good college experience. One negative roommate wouldn't ruin the entire experience for the positive one.

So it would stand to reason that

F + -S = a good college experience. But it didn't, because something was different.

That was it - Fiddleford wasn’t the outlier. It was Stanford. It made perfect sense. He was so negative that he overpowered Fiddleford's positive, making him feel lesser, and changing the outcome of the equation.

He felt that all too familiar anger clouding his thoughts again, and he found himself balling his fists. It was just his luck that after spending his whole life toiling on a farm, he finally gets to live his dream, only to be cursed by a random assignment. He could have roomed with anyone, but god bestowed upon him Stanford.

He tried to steady his breathing, but his vision was blurring and he couldn’t focus on anything but the anger. He could only let out a yell in frustration, pacing the room again and wiping his eyes. Fiddleford found himself kicking over a moving box, watching the contents spill onto the floor. It was satisfying enough for him to knock another one off a desk with a growl.

But then, he heard the door open. He whipped around to see his roommate standing in the doorway.

Fiddleford didn’t remember what happened exactly. He only remembered the overwhelming rage that caused him to lash out. Fiddleford got angry at many things, but something about Stanford's know-it-all demeanor had introduced him to a new kind of rage he had never experienced before. He wasn’t quite sure how to process it.

But now he was outside, in the hall. His hand was stinging like hell—he could only imagine how Stanford’s cheek felt. Guilt gnawed at a part of him, but he ignored it and made his way out of the building.

It was sunset and the sky was a dull orange. He could hear crickets far off. The stinging on his palm soon faded, as did the roaring heartbeat in his ears. He sat down on an extremely uncomfortable metal bench and closed his eyes. He found himself wishing he could smoke, but he had left his lighter in the dorm. So, he took in deep breaths until he couldn’t remember how many he had done. Slowly, very slowly, everything returned to its calm state.

Now he was able to think about this logically. He’d see if he could switch to another dorm and get a new roommate. Then, he would just have to avoid Stanford during their shared classes, which was just over half his schedule. That was manageable. And if he couldn’t switch… well, he’d deal with Stanford Pines the only way he knew how.

He’d simply one-up him in every aspect of college until he could finally wipe that smug look off his face.