Archive of Our Own

The rain came down in torrents, streaking across the dorm window in chaotic rivulets.
It had been pouring for three days without a break, thunder and lightning rushing through the entire campus and nearly shaking the buildings.

Stanford Pines leaned against the windowsill of his friend’s dorm room, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the storm outside. The faint golden glow of the desk lamp behind him outlined his silhouette in the reflection of the glass, his thoughts swirling.

“I dunno what you’re lookin’ for out there, Ford,” came Fiddleford’s voice, soft but tinged with amusement. “Answers to the universe? Proof you ain’t perfect?”

Ford didn’t turn. “I’ve already proven I’m not perfect,” he said dryly, “but let’s be honest, I probably got the closest thing to a perfect score on that test. Professor Mayhew’s questions were laughably simplistic once you got past the quantum field derivation.”

There was a pause as Fiddleford emerged from the bathroom, rubbing at his damp hair with a towel. His long, brownish-blond strands clung to his face and neck, water droplets running down his soft jaw. His faded orange T-shirt looked soft and worn, his jeans loose and slightly rumpled.

Ford turned, looking him over.
“You know what, that’s what’s wrong with this place.” He said, tone flat.

“Huh?” Fiddleford asked, sitting on the bed and attempting to dry his hair a bit more.

“I mean—” His voice faded a bit in his mouth as he watched the other man, a warmth rising in his cheeks as he did. He was stupid.

This was stupid, they were both stupid.
So what if he looked nice, so what if his hair curled slightly as it dried, so what if his upper lip glistened from the water dripping from his moustache. Ford looked away, clearing his throat. “I mean, I just found out my microbiology final is an open-book exam.” He said.

Fiddleford didn’t respond, instead looking at Ford and listening.

He continued. “Can you believe that? I mean, why have us take the test at all? Why not just have our professors take it for us? Or better yet, they can just hand us our diplomas the moment we step on campus freshman year, along with some government cheese, a bong, and a t-shirt that says " hard work is for suckers. ”

Fiddleford let out a soft bark of laughter, shaking his head. “Well, I’m glad one of us found it, uh, what’d ya call it–? ‘Laughably simplistic,’” he said, his drawl sharpening with sarcasm. “’Cause I’m fairly certain I flunked.”

Ford looked over again, a faint smile playing on his lips. “You’re too smart to fail, F. You overthink things, is all. If you’d just stop trying to find fifty ways to solve the same equation, you’d see the obvious path right in front of you. Math and basically anything similar is honestly the easiest thing once you realise that there’s only one way to do all of them, there’s no point in figuring anything else out.”

Fiddleford shot him a look as he tossed the towel onto his chair. “It ain’t overthinkin’. It’s wantin’ to be sure I didn’t miss anything. Unlike you, I don’t constantly have a parade goin’ in my head about how brilliant I am.”

Ford raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “Confidence isn’t arrogance when it’s justified.” He said, raising his hand and index finger as if making a factual statement, which he was not.

“Uh-huh,” Fiddleford muttered, running his fingers through his damp hair and pacing to his desk. He eyed the messy pile of papers and notes, his hands twitching faintly before he began to reorganise them. “Surprised you showered. Thought for sure you’d still be hunched over your notes, polishin’ up that precious genius a’yours.”

He organised each note by subject, Ford noted, and watched as he sub-categorised those into which colour the cover of his notebook or sticky note was.

“You don’t polish genius, Fiddleford. It’s innate.” Ford said after a moment, and waved a hand dismissively before moving toward the bed. “And I showered earlier. Unlike you, I don’t feel the need to drown myself after every academic endeavor.”

Fiddleford looked over at him for a moment, silent.
After a while, he sighed, exasperation evident. “Right well… at the risk a’sounding what like my own mother , I think you could stand to put them wax wings down for a bit.”

Ford rolled his eyes but didn’t answer, instead gesturing toward the rain. “Look at that,” he said, steering the topic back to the storm. “It’s almost poetic, isn’t it? Torrential chaos, perfectly reflecting the state of academia.”

Fiddleford let out a soft laugh, though his brow furrowed as he leaned against his desk to look outside. “Sometimes you make me wanna shoot my own foot, Stanferd.”

Ford only laughed.

The moment of levity passed, and Fiddleford’s shoulders slumped slightly. “I’m just worried.” He let out.

“About?”

“Well… what about that paper we gotta write for Dr. Neumann?”

“Which one?”

There was a pause.
“What do you mean, which one?” Fiddleford asked, voice panicked, eyebrows knitted together. “The—”

“My apologies,” Ford said, raising both hands up as if settling a wild horse. “I forgot you only have to write one.” He said.

The other man sighed.
“You gotta write more than one?”

Ford nodded.
“I suggested doing future assignments and ones from previous semesters for extra credit.” He explained. “I have five due all on the same day— She suggested I have them week after week, but I refused. It’s more exciting and more driving to work on all of them at once. Plus, it gets it done faster.”

Fiddleford only stared at his roommate for a while before shaking his head, a look of concern in his eyes.
“That’s… practical , Stanferd. Well, in any case, I can’t tell if I’ve started mine all wrong, or if I’ve just got this… itch in my mind that won’t let me leave it alone, that won’t let me j’relax for a moment, I just keep goin’ over it again and again an’ again until I-I can’t hardly remember what the subject was.”

Ford tilted his head, studying Fiddleford. He recognized the telltale signs—the restless hands, the faint wrinkle of worry between his brows. It wasn’t the first time Fiddleford had agonized over something, and Ford doubted it would be the last.

“You’re overthinking again,” Ford said, his voice softer now. “The paper’s fine. You’re just trapped in that loop of yours again.”

“Maybe,” Fiddleford muttered, though his gaze stayed fixed on his desk. His fingers twitched again, moving a stack of papers a fraction of an inch before sighing and stepping away.

“Come on,” Ford said. “The paper can wait. You’re running on fumes.”

Fiddleford hesitated, then nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Guess you’re right.”

“Of course I am!” Ford joked as he stretched his arms above his head, his shoulders popping like firecrackers, still glancing at the rain. “You know, storms like this remind me of playing the piano.”

Fiddleford paused and turned to him.
“The piano?”

“Mm-hmm.” Ford turned from the window and leaned against the frame, arms crossed again. “When I was eight, I became obsessed with Clair de Lune. Debussy’s most famous piece. A masterpiece, really. Anyway, I’d spend hours at the piano trying to get every note perfect. My mother said I played it better than the record.”

Fiddleford chuckled softly, shaking his head as he returned to his papers. “That sounds like somethin’ she’d say. Probably tried to make you feel like Beethoven reincarnate or somethin’.”

Ford laughed faintly. “Bach, and well, she wasn’t entirely wrong. I was… quite good. But once I started focusing more on…” He stopped.
Really, he got bored of the piano after he and Stan found that old boat on the beach, and after that, the piano just didn’t seem important anymore; not as important and not as fun as spending time with his brother away from the house.

He blinked.
“After I focused more on my academics, I left it behind like… an old toy.”

Fiddleford tilted his head, a faint glimmer of something unreadable in his expression. “Huh. Well, for what it’s worth, my older sister, Kate, still plays. She’s been obsessed with the piano ever since she got her first hymn book. Mom used to make her practice in front of all the neighbors.”

“And did she impress them?”

“Impress?” Fiddleford nearly whined out, fidgeting idly with his glasses. “I reckon she was all right, but mostly they just clapped so they wouldn’t hurt her feelings. Least that’s what my dad said. Mom’s still callin’ to give me updates on her, y’know. Said she’s got a nasty cold now.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Not like Kate can’t take care of herself. She’s tougher than most folks give her credit for.”

Ford arched a brow but didn’t press. “Maybe I should start playing again. I could use the practice.”

“You still could,” Fiddleford said, leaning back against his desk. “I mean, we ain’t exactly got a piano in here, though, unless you’re plannin’ on air-playin’ yourself to sleep.”

“Not quite the same,” Ford quipped, striding over to his desk and flipping through a stack of his own notes. He picked up a thin, glossy magazine from the clutter. “Though I did pick up something that might interest you. Or, uh, not.”

Fiddleford frowned, squinting at the cover. “What is it?”

Ford held it up. The cover featured a grainy black-and-white photo of a lake surrounded by mist, with bold letters proclaiming, ‘The Unexplained: Mysteries of the Unknown!’ Beneath it, a smaller line read, “Secrets of the Loch Ness Monster!”

“Oh, lord,” Fiddleford muttered, rolling his eyes. “What kinda nonsense did you waste money on this time?”

Ford ignored the jab and began searching for something.
He paused on one of the pages.

“Hey, wait, look at this.” He said, holding the magazine up to Fiddleford’s nose.

The other man’s eyes drifted to the opposite page Ford wanted him to see, widening. “A golden banjo contest?” He gasped. “Oh, dang, even them strings are gold! That ain’t practical at all, but I don’t reckon I care!” He moved to grab it from Ford, but it was pulled away before he could.

“No, no, Fiddleford,” Ford rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Look!”

It was an advert for a monster photo contest.
The prize was $200.

“$100 each,” Ford said, sighing. “Imagine? It’s too bad Indiana’s population of cryptids is… well, let’s just say not like Jersey, that’s for sure. You should have seen the things me and, uh, the things I’d see out in the Pine Barrens! I saw a Mantis Man one time!” He smiled.

Fiddleford crossed his arms.
“Right, and unless you wanna get pictures of them ‘ghostly’ kangaroos you swear you saw last November an’ send that in, I dunno if we’ll get much of a chance for the prize.”

“I did see them.” Ford muttered, shaking his head as he flipped to a bookmarked page, pointing at a diagram. “This is what I wanted to show you. Look at this. They’ve theorized the digestive anatomy of Nessie— and also other sea dwelling cryptids alike, don’t want to give her all the credit, of course.” He said, voice surprisingly gentle. “But it’s fascinating, isn’t it? A creature that could have existed for millions of years, surviving undetected in a body of water this size…”

Fiddleford stepped closer, resting a hand on the desk as he examined the page. The sketch was detailed, showing a long, serpentine creature with labeled organs and annotations about hypothetical feeding habits.

“Looks more like somethin’ outta a biology textbook than a monster story,” he admitted. “Don’t think it’s real, though.”

Ford raised a brow. “ What? You, who insists on checking every detail five times to make sure it’s ‘just right’? You’re intelligent, you of all people should understand why a creature like this could exist.”

“I understand why people might wanna believe in it,” Fiddleford countered, leaning back against the desk again. “Don’t make it real. Sometimes folk just see what they wanna see.”

Ford's spine stiffened. The slight crease in his brow deepened as he shot Fiddleford a sharp look. “What are you insinuating?” he asked, his tone defensive.

Fiddleford held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Ain’t sayin’ it’s not interesting. Just that it’s probably a hoax. People get caught up in wishful thinkin’. That’s all.”

Ford’s grip on the magazine tightened. “So, you’re saying the people who’ve spent their lives studying this—photographers, researchers, witnesses—are all liars or fools?” His voice low, carrying an edge to it.

“I didn’t say that, Ford,” Fiddleford said. “I just think it’s more likely they’re seein’ what they want to see, or maybe somethin’ ordinary that looks strange in the right light. Like swamp gas or-or driftwood with a family a’beaver on it.”

Ford shut the magazine with a sharp snap and placed it on the desk. He crossed his arms, his jaw set tightly. “Of course you’d dismiss it. You’re too busy being skeptical of anything that doesn’t fit neatly into your little world.”

“Hey! Now, hold on just a second. That ain’t fair.” 

“No?” Ford retorted, his voice sharp. “You think it’s ridiculous that people believe in something extraordinary, but don’t you carry something around every day that’s based on faith and belief?”

Before Fiddleford could respond, Ford reached out and gently tugged at the golden cross that hung around Fiddleford’s neck, pulling it out from where it had been tucked under his shirt. The action was slow, deliberate, and meant to make a point.

Fiddleford flushed immediately, his ears and nose turning red as his breath hitched. “Th-That’s different,” he stammered, his voice uncharacteristically shaky. He reached up, almost instinctively, to cover the cross with his hand, but Ford’s fingers had already released it.

“Why is it different?” Ford asked, his tone challenging. He didn’t seem to notice Fiddleford’s embarrassment, the red flush over his cheeks and nose likely from guilt; what else would it be from? “Because it’s yours? Because it’s personal?”

Fiddleford shifted uncomfortably, looking away as he nervously pressed his fingers together. “It just is,” He mumbled, his tone wavering.

Ford narrowed his eyes, his expression softening slightly as he tilted his head. “I’m not saying it’s wrong to believe in something, Fiddleford,” he said, his voice quieter now. “But if you want me to respect your beliefs, maybe you should think—” Ford laughed softly. “Five times, before dismissing mine.”

Fiddleford didn’t respond immediately, still avoiding eye contact and his face was still red. His fingers brushed the cross nervously, likely an attempt in trying to ground himself.

“Yer right,” Fiddleford admitted after a long pause, his voice barely above a whisper. “I shouldn’t’ve been so quick to say what I did. I guess… I don’t think about it the way you do. Sorry.”

Ford looked at him for a moment, his rigid stance relaxing slightly. “Alright,” he said, his voice still cool but less sharp. “Apology accepted.”

The room fell into an awkward silence, Fiddleford still messing with the cross and Ford looking back at the magazine as if debating whether or not to reopen it. The rain outside tapped steadily against the window, filling the air with a calming rhythm that neither seemed ready to acknowledge.

“So,” Fiddleford said after a moment, his voice deliberately casual. “You’re gonna be thinkin’ about that monster all night, ain’t ya?”

“ Aren’t you. And I’ve thought about worse,” Ford replied, settling back in his chair and crossing his legs. “Like how I’ll never understand why someone as detail-oriented as you insists on worrying about papers you’ve already finished.”

Fiddleford snorted, but his expression softened.
“Yeah, well… guess we’ve all got our quirks.”

The rain continued to drum against the window, the storm outside a stark contrast to the warmth of their conversation.

Ford glanced at the clock on the desk, narrowing his eyes at the glowing red numbers. “It’s past midnight. If we don’t sleep now, we might as well stay up for a third night in a row. Not that I couldn’t handle it.”

Fiddleford shot him a look as he stood, stretching his back with a groan. “Well, I ain’t gonna be much use tomorrow if I don’t get at least a wink of shut-eye tonight.”

Ford waved a dismissive hand and started unbuttoning his shirt. “You make it sound like you’re not used to pushing the limits of human endurance. We’ve done this before. I thrive under pressure!”

“Sure you do,” Fiddleford muttered, rifling through his drawer for a clean pair of pajama pants. As he found some faded white and green polka dot ones, he glanced back at Ford. “Y’know, the bedbugs in your old room are long gone, right?” He asked. “You don’t have to keep squeezin’ into mine.”

Ford hesitated, tugging off his sweater and tossing it onto the back of the chair. “I’ll believe that when I see definitive proof that they’ve vacated the premises. Until then, I refuse to take any chances.”

“You’re impossible,” Fiddleford said, shaking his head as he shuffled to the bathroom, likely to grab something.

By the time he returned a few minutes later, Ford had already changed into a loose T-shirt and plaid pajama pants, sitting cross-legged on the bed and flipping idly through the monster magazine again.

“Hey, do you think if robots were mass produced an’ were like, Robby the robot or somethin’ do you think people would give ‘em free will outta the kindness a’their hearts or—” Fiddleford said, setting his folded clothes aside and unbuttoning his jeans.

“No.” Ford barely glanced up with his answer, but then something caught his eye, and he burst out laughing. “Fiddleford, do you—do you seriously have your name written on your underwear?”

Fiddleford froze, his face turning red once again as he yanked his pajama pants on as quickly as possible. “Yes, I do! And there’s a perfectly good reason for it!”

“Oh, this I have to hear,” Ford said, still laughing as he leaned back against the headboard.

Fiddleford jabbed a finger in his direction, his drawl thickening as he got flustered. “People’ve been stealin’ my clothes, or tossin’ ‘em in the trash like they ain’t worth keepin’! I started writin’ my name on everything so they’d stop. It’s practical.”

Ford raised a brow, the amusement still dancing in his voice. “And has it worked? Or are there now a few delinquents walking around campus in pink underwear with ‘Fiddleford H. McGucket’ proudly stamped on their backsides?”

Fiddleford threw a pillow at him, his ears bright red. “They purposefully got my white clothin’ and threw it in with reds!” His voice cracked. “An’ it ain’t none of your business if it worked or not! Least I’m not losin’ my clothin’ every week.”

Ford caught the pillow with ease, grinning.
“You’re right; it’s genius,” he said with mock astonishment. “Practical and stylish.”

“Go to sleep, Ford,” Fiddleford grumbled, pulling back the blankets and sliding under them.

“Gladly,” Ford replied, setting the magazine on the nightstand and turning off the lamp as he settled under the covers.

He settled down comfortably, sighing softly as he stared up at the ceiling.
A giggle bubbled up from his chest as he thought back to Fiddleford’s clothing being stolen, dyed pink and thrown away. He couldn’t help it if it was comical.

“Oh, hush up or else I’ll start writin’ your name on your clothes,” Fiddleford snapped, already half-buried in the blankets.

Ford smiled in the dark, knowing the other man couldn’t see him.
“Alright, alright…”

The rain outside softened, the dorm falling into a quiet hum. Ford’s eyes burned faintly with lack of sleep, but his body was still just as wired as it would have been had he had too much coffee. Which he probably had.

Ford glanced over.

Fiddleford lay flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, his hands fidgeting restlessly with the edge of the blanket. His breaths were shallow, his mind visibly churning.

Ford could tell, he’d seen it before.
He turned to his side, propping his head up with one hand. “You’re not sleeping.”

“No,” Fiddleford said flatly, his voice tight.

Ford frowned.
“What’s going on?” He nudged him gently.

Fiddleford exhaled sharply through his nose, sitting up and running both hands through his still damp hair ( he’ll get a cold, Ford thought distantly). “It’s that test. The more I think ‘bout it, the more I’m sure I failed. And if I failed, they’ll put me on academic probation. If I can’t keep my scholarship, I’ll get kicked out, and I can’t—” His voice cracked as he tugged at a stray strand of hair, pulling it taut. “I can’t afford to come back if that happens, Stanferd. I’ll have to go back home. My folks’ll be so disappointed, and—”

“You didn’t fail,” Ford cut in firmly.

“You don’t know that!” Fiddleford snapped, his voice high-pitched and panicked. His eyelid visibly twitched as he continued, his words spilling out faster and faster. “I think I left three questions blank, Ford. Three! And what if I miscalculated everything else? What if—what if I lose all my funding? I’ll have to tell my parents, and they’ll—”

“Fiddleford,” Ford said sharply, sitting up.

Fiddleford didn’t seem to hear him, his hands moving now to rub at his temples, his nails grazing the skin like he was trying to scrub away the thoughts. “—and my dad’ll say he told me this was all a waste of money, sendin’ me outta the state. I’ll be stuck fixin’ tractors in some field forever, and—!”

“Fiddleford!” Ford snapped again, this time grabbing his wrist to stop the repetitive motion.

Fiddleford froze, his wide, glassy eyes finally meeting Ford’s. His breath hitched, and Ford’s grip softened.

“You didn’t fail,” Ford said again, his tone calm, his voice. “You worked harder than anyone else in that class. You don’t even have to calculate half the stuff you’re worried about because you memorized it so well. You’re brilliant, and you’re not going to get kicked out.”

Fiddleford blinked, his breathing still uneven.
“You… you really think so?”

Ford smiled faintly. “I know so. But even if you bombed the whole test—which you didn’t—you’re not going to end up in some field fixing tractors or in some garage making things you’re unhappy with. You’re better than that. You’re destined for bigger things.” Ford paused. “Or at least that’s what my mother would say.”

Fiddleford stared at him, his shoulders sagging a little. “I dunno, Ford. I just…” He trailed off, looking down at their hands—Ford still lightly gripping his wrist. His free hand trembled slightly before he pulled it away and rubbed the back of his neck.

A beat of silence passed before Fiddleford spoke again, his voice soft and hesitant. “Maybe… maybe I oughta, uh…” He swallowed hard, his eyes darting to the window before looking back at Ford. “…try somethin’ to take the edge off.”

Ford raised a brow. “Take the edge off? Like what? Oh, like tea? I can make you some.”

“No, but thank you,” Fiddleford said, rubbing his arm. His words tumbled out nervously. “I mean… I might have somethin’… from a friend. Just to help me stop thinkin’ so much. You know?”

It took Ford a moment to process what he meant. When he did, his expression immediately soured. “Are you talking about drugs?” He gasped out, eyes wide.

Fiddleford winced at the word.
“No! Well, I mean, yes—”

“Fiddleford!”

“No, not—not like the bad ones! Just a little… somethin’ to relax.”

“Absolutely not!” Ford said, crossing his arms. “Do you have any idea how that could affect your cognitive function? The damage it could do to your brain chemistry?”

“It’s just weed,” Fiddleford muttered, looking down. “Ain’t like it’s heroin or nothin’. I’ve done it before, and I’m fine.”

“That explains a lot,” Ford deadpanned.

Fiddleford flinched, staring, and Ford sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I don’t need anything messing with my mind, alright? I like it just the way it is. Sharp, unclouded, and functional .”

Fiddleford hesitated, his hands twisting together in his lap.
“I didn’t even ask if you wanted any!”

“What about contact high? My– uh, my friend got contact high from being in the car with his friends who were smoking! I’d never seen him actually do his schoolwork with so much focus.” Ford’s voice faded a bit. “Anyway, that’s not the point!”

“Then go to yer own room.”

A silence fell over the room.
“I can’t. There are…” Ford inhaled. “Bedbugs.”

Fiddleford stared at his roommate without blinking for a moment.
“Ford…”

Ford swallowed, studying him for a long moment, his gaze flicking to the way Fiddleford’s fingers twitched, the tremor in his voice, the way his breaths still hadn’t fully evened out.

With a reluctant sigh, Ford rubbed the back of his neck.
“Fine. Fine. But just this once.”

Fiddleford looked at him, surprised.
“What?” His voice was faint as he stared, lips parted.

“Don’t make me regret this,” Ford muttered, already bracing himself for what he was sure would be a mistake.

Fiddleford blinked, clearly not expecting Ford to agree, before his lips quirked into a relieved, if hesitant, smile. “Wait, you wanna—? Oh, um, alright, uh… just sit tight for a second.” He stood up and shuffled over to his desk, pulling open the bottom drawer.

Ford watched him, his arms still crossed, and muttered, “If this kills any brain cells, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“Relax, Ford,” Fiddleford said, pulling out a small tin box. “I ain’t tryin’ to scramble your mind. Just help you relax a bit. Helps with me at least.”

Ford paused, watching his roommate. “You’re awfully well-prepared for someone who claims to only do this occasionally.”

“I didn’t say how occasionally,” Fiddleford mumbled, his cheeks reddening as he fumbled with something in the drawer. He moved to the window, cracking it open slightly to let the rain-cooled air slip inside. “Besides, I keep it for, uh, emergencies.”

Ford rolled his eyes. “You treat marijuana like it’s a first aid kit. This is obscene.”

“You really don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Fiddleford said softly, glancing over his shoulder. He seemed smaller, shoulders hunched, the light from the streetlamp outside casting a soft glow on his drying hair. “I ain’t forcin’ ya to. Heck, I didn’t even ask ya.”

Ford sighed. 

He wasn’t entirely opposed to this idea—his curiosity was already whispering at the edges of his mind, and seeing Fiddleford like this—wound tight enough to snap—it was hard to say no.

“No, no, I’ll do it,” Ford muttered. “But know that I’m only doing this because you look like you’re about to hit the self-destruct button.”

Fiddleford gave him a small smile, his nerves still evident.
“Well, thank you, Ford.” He said, walking over with whatever he had been grabbing. “I really appreciate this.”

Ford crossed his legs on the bed, staring down at the small pile of supplies Fiddleford had nervously brought out. The materials seemed straightforward enough: rolling papers, a plastic bag of loose marijuana, and a tiny, slightly battered grinder that looked like it had been through one too many late-night experiments.

Fiddleford, now perched on the edge of the bed, seemed a slight bit calmer, though his hands still fidgeted with the paper and his lip was caught between his teeth. He had laid everything out with the same methodical precision Ford had come to expect from him, lining it all up like parts of an intricate machine.

“You ever done this before?” Fiddleford asked hesitantly, his voice soft but tinged with curiosity.

Ford gave a clipped shake of his head, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “I should say not,” he replied hastily, as if the question were an insult. “I don’t have time to waste on… recreational substances.”

Fiddleford raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. Instead, he picked up the grinder and began demonstrating, his motions slow and deliberate. “Alright, well, it ain’t complicated,” he said, his southern drawl easing the tension in the air. “Grind it up like this, then roll it in the paper real snug-like. It’s kinda… well it’s sorta just like buildin’ a clock, really—precision’s the key.”

“I don’t think that analogy really applies here.”

“You’ll see,” Fiddleford replied with a small smile, handing the grinder over. “Here. You try.”

Ford took the small device with a skeptical expression, fumbling with it briefly before managing to grind a modest amount of weed. He stared down at the result, uncertain what to do next.

“Now just put it onto the paper,” Fiddleford instructed, his tone patient, though his eyes gleamed with amusement.

Ford followed the directions, his movements stiff and mechanical. He was used to working with precision tools, drafting detailed blueprints, and calculating variables to the nth degree. But this— this was absurd. The paper refused to cooperate, folding awkwardly in his hands as he attempted to distribute the mixture evenly.

“It’s like it’s fighting me,” Ford muttered under his breath, his frustration mounting.

Fiddleford leaned over to observe, his lips pressing together as he poorly suppressed a laugh. “You’re, uh… you’re supposed to roll it, Ford.”

“I am rolling it!” Ford snapped, his voice rising slightly. “This is a flawed design. Who invented this method?”

Despite himself, Fiddleford snorted, which only made Ford more agitated. He tried to fold the paper over and seal it, but the contents spilled out in a lumpy mess. What remained was a crooked, misshapen joint that barely held itself together.

Fiddleford clapped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter, though a few small snorts escaped. “Oh, Lord, bless your heart,” he managed after a moment, his voice thick with barely contained amusement. “Ford, that’s the worst joint I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Ford’s cheeks burned as he glared at the monstrosity in his hands. “It’s perfectly functional,” he argued, though even he didn’t believe it.

“That’s a tragedy, that’s what it is,” Fiddleford teased, plucking the joint from Ford’s fingers to inspect it. He turned it over as if examining a failed experiment, his smile widening. “I wouldn’t light this thing if ya paid me to. It looks like it might explode.”

There was a pause.
“Woah, look at that,” Fiddleford held it out to Ford to inspect for a split second. “I dunno how you did it, but there’s wires in here—” Ford pushed at his shoulder, scowled, and snatched the joint back, holding it defensively.

Fiddleford cackled.
“It really is a bomb!”

“Well, let’s see you do better,” Ford said, his tone prickly.

Fiddleford raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Lemme show you.”

He took a fresh paper and began rolling another joint with practiced ease. His fingers moved deftly, smoothing and shaping the paper with a confidence that made Ford bristle. Within moments, he produced a neat, symmetrical joint that Ford simply stared at with indignation. 

“See?” Fiddleford said, holding it up. “Ain’t so hard once you get the hang of it.”

“I’m not going to get the hang of it, I’m not a loser!” Ford began muttering under his breath, his arms crossing over his chest again as he glared at the floor.

“Aw, c’mon now,” Fiddleford said gently, nudging him with an elbow. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ new at somethin’. Besides, we all gotta start somewhere.”

Ford didn’t reply, knowing he’d say something hurtful if he did. Fiddleford handed him the neatly rolled joint with an encouraging smile, and he took it without protest.

“You wanna try it?” Fiddleford asked, his tone soft and nearly happy.

Ford hesitated.
“Ladies first.” He said, to which Fiddleford only laughed. Ford grimaced as he said it, someone else’s voice coming through when he did. His roommate, having turned to walk over to the open window, didn’t notice.

“Alright, alright.” He said, lighting the joint with a practiced flick of his lighter. 

Fiddleford took a long drag, holding it in for a moment before exhaling slowly out the window. He hesitated before offering it to Ford.

Ford looked at it like it was a live grenade, but he walked over from the bed. “What exactly am I supposed to do?”

“Just—” Fiddleford’s voice was slightly scratchy, and he cleared his throat first. “What do you think yer supposed to do? Take it out to dinner?” He asked. He paused, shaking his head. “I’ve been spendin’ too much time with you, Ford. Anyway, inhale,” Fiddleford said gently. “Not too much your first time, though.”

With a dramatic groan, Ford gingerly took the joint and brought it to his lips. He hesitated again, his eyes flicking to Fiddleford, who gave him an encouraging nod.

“Fine,” Ford muttered under his breath, inhaling quickly.

He immediately started coughing, doubling over as his lungs protested.
“Aw, Lord, you spit on me!” Fiddleford laughed slightly, patting Ford’s back

Ford’s cheeks flushed from embarrassment as he sputtered, “ You’re trying to kill me!”

“No, I ain’t!” Fiddleford said. “You just did it too fast. Try again, but slower this time.”

Ford glared at him but reluctantly brought the joint back to his lips. This time, he inhaled slower, letting the smoke sit in his lungs for a moment before exhaling shakily.

“There,” Fiddleford said gently, as if talking to a dog or a child. “Ain’t so bad, huh?”

Ford handed the joint back, his expression sceptical.
“Well, that was horrifying. And I don’t feel anything.”

“Well, give it a minute!” Fiddleford said, exasperated, taking another drag.

They passed it back and forth a few more times, the tension in the room slowly ebbing away. Ford’s posture relaxed, his usual rigid stance softening as a faint grin tugged at his lips.

“I don’t know if I like this.” Ford said. “Though it is… interesting,” He admitted, leaning against the windowsill. His voice was slower, his words more deliberate. “I can see why you do this.”

“Told ya,” Fiddleford said, his smile widening. He hesitated. “Oh, um, a warnin’ though—”

“ Now a warning?” 

Fiddleford shook his head.
“Just if ya have too much you can—”

“What constitutes too much!?”

“Well, I dunno for you! You’re okay, though, yer fine. It’s just if ya have too much you can get woozy. It’s like alcohol, is all.”

“Oh, great,” Ford rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. “You’re full of bad ideas, McGucket.”

“They ain’t all bad outcomes,” Fiddleford shot back, his drawl a little more pronounced now. “Yer gonna be fine.”

They stood there for a while, the rain still pouring outside, before Fiddleford set the joint aside and closed the window. Ford sighed, pushing away and going over to the bed, sitting cross-legged.

“You enjoyin’ this yet?” Fiddleford asked.

“Yeah— No! ” Ford stammered out. He rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. “Maybe. Don’t let it go to your head.”

Fiddleford laughed, sitting beside him on the bed. Ford leaned back against the headboard, his legs stretching out and crossing at the ankles, his head lolling slightly to the side as he looked at Fiddleford.

He sighed. “You know, this might’ve been the most relaxed I’ve felt since I was little. Or… ever .”

Fiddleford smiled at that, his hand resting casually on the blanket between them. “Glad to help, partner.”

Ford didn’t respond, his gaze softening as he looked at Fiddleford. His eyelids drooped slightly, the sharp edge of his usual demeanor softened by the effects of the drug. 

“You ever think about robots?” Fiddleford asked suddenly as he glanced over at Ford.

“What? Is this one of those conversations you have while on drugs?”

“ No , I wanted to ask this earlier. And this weed ain’t strong enough to do that.” 

Ford nodded.
“Well what about them?”

Fiddleford reached over and brushed Ford’s bangs from his eyes. “Like, what if they were… y’know, sentient? Like Robby the Robot in Forbidden Planet?” Fiddleford gestured vaguely, as though conjuring up the image.

Ford shook his head.
“Robby wasn’t sentient.”

“Yeah, he was.”

“No, he wasn’t.”

“Yes, he was.”

“Fiddleford, I’ve watched that movie 167 times. I’d know.” Ford said, anger bubbling up in his stomach, though it was subdued.

“First of all, no, second of all, why have you watched Forbidden Planet 167 times?! Did ya like Altaira or somethin’? ” Fiddleford asked, eyebrows knitted together with what looked like concern.

“Oh, god no!” Ford blurted out. “She annoyed the fuck out of me.”

“Then why did you watch it so many times?”

“It’s a good movie!”

Fiddleford paused, and seeming to agree, shrugged.
“Well, yeah. Anyway, back to my question. If robots could think and feel—”

“Unlike Robby.”

“Fine.” Fiddleford rolled his eyes. “Wouldn’t you wanna give ’em free will?”

Ford frowned, his brow furrowing slightly despite the relaxed haze in his expression. “No,” he replied flatly, his tone decisive.

“No?” Fiddleford repeated, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. “Why not?”

“Because no one would,” Ford said, his voice gaining a hint of sharpness. “Robots aren’t alive. They’re machines. Tools. Giving them free will would be like giving free will to… to a toaster.”

Fiddleford’s face fell slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. “It was a rhetorical question,” he muttered, messing with a loose thread on the comforter. “Says more about the answer than the question itself.”

Ford rolled his eyes, his frustration simmering under his otherwise calm exterior. “Well, I don’t care. A robot isn’t a person. It’s not alive.”

“That’s where we disagree,” Fiddleford said quietly but firmly, his tone more serious now. “If somethin’ can think, if it can feel—even if it’s artificial—that’s alive enough for me.”

Ford sighed, leaning his head back against the wall. “You’re too sentimental,” he muttered.

Fiddleford’s gaze narrowed slightly, but he didn’t respond to the jab.
“Is that all they are to you?”

“What?”

“A tool. Like, if a robot had taken care of you for years and then it stopped working, would you just throw it out?”

“No,” Ford said, shaking his head.

“Yeah, you’d feel bad for it.” Fiddleford nodded.

“No ,” Ford said, pushing at his friend’s shoulder. “I’d want to fix it because it’d be a waste to just throw it away.”

Fiddleford clicked his tongue, sighing.
“But it talks! It talks and is nice to you and yer just still feelin’ like it’s a tool?”

Ford exhaled, shifting his hips.
“The microwave beeps, doesn’t mean I’d keep it around for company. And you’re acting like that’s a bad thing. It was made to do something, and once it stops working, it no longer serves its purpose. I mean, you try putting a nail in a board using your forehead and tell me how you feel about hammers after.” Ford said.

Fiddleford leaned forward, his expression contemplative. “Well what about them Twilight Zone episodes? Y’know, the ones where the robots look like humans? Like that one with the guy stuck on Mars and the robot girl they gave him?”

Ford gave him a sidelong glance, waiting for him to continue.

“What if… what if you fell in love with a robot and didn’t even know she was a robot?” Fiddleford asked, his voice soft.

Ford’s laugh was sharp, almost derisive.
“I wouldn’t,” he said bluntly.

“You wouldn’t fall in love with a robot?”

“I wouldn’t fall in love at all,” Ford clarified, the bitterness in his tone cutting through the otherwise relaxed atmosphere.

Fiddleford flinched slightly, caught off guard by the bluntness of the statement. But before he could respond, Ford continued.

“And even if I did, if robots ever looked so human you couldn’t tell the difference… Then I’d believe in hubris,” Ford said, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. “It wouldn’t just be me with the wax wings.”

Fiddleford tilted his head, his brow furrowing.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means humanity would’ve finally overstepped its bounds,” Ford replied, his voice tinged with an almost smug certainty. “Creating something indistinguishable from life? That’s playing God , and according to fiction, it never ends well.”

Fiddleford stared at him for a long moment, his frown deepening. “You’re awful good at makin’ things sound like the end of the world.”

Ford shrugged, leaning back further and crossing his arms. “No, that’s your job, Fiddleford. Though this isn’t paranoia, it’s fact.”

Fiddleford sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I think you’re underestimatin’ just how complex somethin’ like love—or humanity, for that matter—really is. You can’t just boil it all down to logic.”

Ford didn’t answer immediately, his gaze drifting toward the rain-spattered window. For once, he seemed at a loss for words, his usual air of intellectual superiority tempered by something quieter, something almost vulnerable. He didn’t like this feeling.

They sat in silence for a moment, the conversation hanging heavy in the air between them. Then, with a small, wistful smile, Fiddleford added, “I still think I’d give ’em free will. Robby deserves that much.”

Ford chuckled softly, the tension easing just slightly. “You’d make a terrible God,” he teased, though his tone lacked its usual bite.

“Yeah, well,” Fiddleford said, leaning back on his elbows, “the world don’t need another one, anyhow.”

The conversation drifted eventually, as it often did between the two of them, from robots and their hypothetical sentience to the current fashion trends like clogs, to the slightly less tangible realm of cryptids and monsters. Fiddleford lay sprawled out on his part of the bed now, his hands gesturing lazily as he spoke.

“Look, I understand why folk wanna believe in things like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster,” Fiddleford said, shaking his head slightly. “But just ‘cause ya wanna believe in somethin’ don’t make it real.”

Ford immediately bristled, and if he were a bird, his feathers would have stuck out. “That’s such a narrow-minded perspective,” he shot back, his voice tight with indignation. “Just because something hasn’t been proven yet doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Science is about discovery! About challenging assumptions!”

“See, now that’s what I don’t get,” Fiddleford said, gesturing with both hands, his voice suddenly tinged with frustration. “You’re all about logic and science, Ford. How can you believe in somethin’ like Mothman ? Ain’t no evidence for any a’them!”

Ford’s eyes narrowed, his tone sharp and defensive. “Absence of evidence isn’t evidence of absence, Fiddleford.”

“What?”

“Just because you haven’t seen it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist!”

Fiddleford scoffed, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “That’s mighty convenient, don’t ya think? You’ve got no proof, but you still cling to the idea like it’s gospel. It don’t add up!”

Ford sat back slightly, his jaw tightening as he tried to formulate a response. His voice dropped, quieter but no less firm. “You didn’t grow up where I did,” he said, almost a murmur. “There are things in the Pine Barrens that I’ve seen, Fiddleford. Things you’d lose your mind over!”

Fiddleford frowned, his skepticism softening just a fraction.
“Ford, I grew up in Tennessee. You know what happens when you see something what threatens to make you go insane? You lock the windows, shut the blinds an’ you go to bed n’pray.”

Ford snorted out a laugh.

“I ain’t kiddin’!” Fiddleford said, though his voice was tinged with laughter. “Outta sight outta mind, you forget it an’ then you can’t be scared anymore.”

Ford shook his head.
“Well anyway, I’d see shadows moving where they shouldn’t, lights in the woods that could have been UFOs. Sometimes you’d hear noises that didn’t sound like any animal you’ve ever heard before. And, oh, of course, the Jersey Devil—”

“Oh, come on, Ford!” Fiddleford interrupted, throwing his hands in the air. “The Jersey Devil? That thing was a Crane that someone saw while blazed out of their mind on who knows what!”

“Was it?” Ford shot back, his tone clipped. “ Or is it something science just hasn’t explained yet? Where’s the evidence for that? ”

Fiddleford sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to ward off a headache. “I don’t know what’s more surprising,” he muttered, “that you believe in all this hootinanny bull, or that you’re gettin’ so worked up about it.”

Ford’s irritation flared. “Why is it so hard to believe that there are things in this world we don’t understand yet? Science isn’t about dismissing the unknown—it’s about exploring it.”

“Science is about evidence,” Fiddleford countered, his drawl growing thicker as his frustration grew. “And I ain’t seen any for monsters!”

As Fiddleford argued, Ford found his focus drifting, the intensity of their conversation overshadowed by the way Fiddleford’s lips moved, the subtle twitch of his moustache as he spoke. The way the rainlight softened his features made him look—Ford swallowed hard—entirely too appealing.

His gaze flicked to Fiddleford’s moustache again. How would it feel? Rough against his skin, tickling just enough to make him shiver?

Ford’s heart raced, his face heating despite himself. He wasn’t even listening to the words anymore, just the cadence of Fiddleford’s voice, warm and rich even when indignant. Before he could stop himself, Ford leaned in, his body moving almost of its own accord.

“Ford, are you even listenin’ to me—”

Fiddleford’s words cut off as Ford pressed a brief, tentative kiss to his cheek. The air between them stilled, the tension from their argument shifting into something entirely different. Fiddleford froze, his eyes wide as saucers, the blush spreading rapidly across his face.

“Stanford,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

Ford didn’t pull away entirely, his face still hovering close, his breath mingling with Fiddleford’s. He could feel the faint roughness of stubble where his lips had brushed Fiddleford’s cheek. His voice was soft, almost uncertain as he murmured, “I don’t… know what came over me.”

Their eyes met, and for a brief, charged moment, neither moved. Ford tilted his head slightly, as though drawn by an invisible force. But before he could close the gap, Fiddleford pressed a hand to Ford’s chest, stopping him.

“Ford,” he said again, his voice steadier now. “We’re both men.”

Ford blinked, startled by the words. For a fleeting moment, his mind stumbled over the implication, over the question of his own identity. Was he? Did it matter?

“And?” Ford asked softly.

Fiddleford’s hand lingered on Ford’s chest, his palm warm even through the fabric of Ford’s shirt. “What?” He asked, eyes wide.

Ford blinked, his heart suddenly slamming in his chest against his ribcage.
“Oh, I—” his face flushed, and he leaned away. “I-I forgot.”

They stayed silent for a while.
The rain pattered against the window and thunder rumbled over head, but it sounded muffled compared to the ringing in Ford’s ears.

“Don’t read into it,” Ford murmured, leaning back, trying to pretend like nothing just happened as he nuzzled into the pillow. “I’m just feeling… generous.”

Fiddleford chuckled nervously. “That what you call it? I think you probably smoked too much.” He said as he shifted awkwardly.

They were both quiet again.

After a few seconds, Fiddleford cleared his throat softly. “You’re not usually so, uh, friendly,” he said, and Ford could hear a slight tremor in his voice. “So it, uh, it has to be the high.” He gestured vaguely at the space between them.

“Yeah, that’s all.” Ford nodded, his eyes half-lidded as he glanced at Fiddleford.
He had to be affected tremendously by this drug, otherwise he never would have done that, and on top of it, he never would have been so calm as to change the subject. 

He paused.
“You think I’m never friendly?” Ford asked as he stretched his arms above his head, his muscles relaxing into the bed. “You’re too uptight, Fiddsy.”

Fiddleford’s smile looked tentative.
“Maybe.” He lay back onto the pillow next to Ford, the soft mattress dipping beneath their combined weight. For a moment, they both just stared at the ceiling, the silence between them not exactly uncomfortable, but not easy either.

Though, for both of them it felt familiar.

Ford let out a long, slow breath and closed his eyes.
“You talk about being anxious all the time, Fiddleford,” he said, his tone softer now. “I don’t get it. You’re smarter than any of the people here, other than me. You’re a damn genius .”

Fiddleford laughed softly.

“I am not a genius,” He muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… I dunno, I get worried, you know? What if I mess up? What if I’m not good enough? What if I— I dunno.”

Ford glanced over at him, a bit of concern flashing in his eyes as he saw the usually upbeat, confident man in front of him starting to unravel a little. “It’s okay,” He said quietly, his voice gentle as he reached over, his hand on Fiddleford’s arm. “You don’t have to be perfect all the time.”

Fiddleford blinked at him. “What if I fail? What if I mess up the paper? I keep going over an’ over an’ it again and again in my head, but it never feels right… I could get kicked out… I—I—It just keeps going, over an’ over an it’s like a tornado and it’s makin’ my heart beat outta my chest an’ it feels like I could explode, and—”

“Hey.” Ford’s voice was firmer now, and he gripped onto the man’s forearm now. Fiddleford looked over, his face drawn out and worn.

“You’re not going to fail, Fiddleford. You’re one of the smartest guys I know. So stop torturing yourself, okay?” Ford paused, his lips curling into a smile that was almost uncharacteristically tender. “You’ve got this. I’m sure you aced that paper.”

After a long pause, Fiddleford’s voice was barely a whisper.
“I don’t deserve this… not from you.”

Ford’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “What? You don’t deserve what?”

“Yer… kindness,” Fiddleford said softly. “I ain’t never been good, Ford. I ain’t the man you think I am. Lord, my family… They deserve so much. And I’m not…” He trailed off.

Ford’s gaze softened, his expression turning more serious, though his voice remained low and reassuring. “You deserve all the kindness in the world , Fiddleford. Don’t forget that, okay?”

Fiddleford stared for a long time, eyebrows creased together, blue eyes focused away from his roommate. He seemed lost in thought, and Ford moved to say more, to do anything to get his friend to believe him. 

Fiddleford let out a shaky breath before he could, and shifted a little under the covers. “Alright,” he said with a small, almost nervous laugh. “We’re both a little high. But… you’re right, I guess.”

“Of course I’m right.” Ford laughed, letting out a yawn. “Now, enough about that. You ready for some sleep, F? We’ve both earned it.”

Fiddleford hesitated for just a second longer, then nodded, feeling a comforting sense of ease wash over him. “Yeah… I think I am.”

They both settled into the bed, the space between them filled with an easy quiet. As Ford turned the lamp beside the bed back off (when did they turn it back on?), the room was cloaked in darkness, save for the faint glow of the streetlights and the steady rhythm of rain against the windows.

“Goodnight, Ford,” Fiddleford murmured quietly, the gentle drowsiness starting to settle over him.

“Goodnight, Fidds,” Ford responded, his voice a low hum, warm and steady.

The dorm room was silent now, save for the faint hum of the rain outside and the occasional creak of the old building settling (or bugs eating away at the foundations, who knows?). Ford lay on his side, his hands curled loosely under his chin, staring at the wall across from him. Fiddleford’s soft breathing was steady and rhythmic, the telltale sign of sleep.

It was comforting, something Ford had gotten used to.
When he tried to sleep in his bed again, the silence started to press in on him.

Eventually, Fiddleford began to snore.
Ford liked the noise, he never understood why people would complain about their spouses or partners snoring in the night.

With a bit of a hum, Ford closed his eyes and moved to relax, but the quiet felt oppressive, almost suffocating. His heart was pounding in his chest, so forceful he could feel the pulse in his ears.

Why was it beating so fast?

He shifted onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. He focused on his breathing, forcing air in and out of his lungs, but it only seemed to make things worse. The thudding in his chest grew louder, reverberating through his entire body. His breaths quickened involuntarily, shallow and rapid, and he realized with a jolt that his chest felt tight, like an invisible weight was pressing down on him.

Was it his heart?
Was that what he heard?

Or was it someone else’s?
Was it something under the bed, under the floorboard, something haunting him, something watching him?

His eye started hurting.
An aching, dull pain at first.

Something to ignore.
A headache that started, is all.

That’s all it was, right?
The heart under the floorboard kept beating. Ford could hear the blood rushing through it, he could hear the thud of muffled wheezing from how quickly the organ was beating to try to live, to do its purpose.

It then felt like a sharp needle was pressing into his eye socket. He clenched his fists, willing himself to ignore it, but the sensation grew. His vision blurred slightly in that eye, making him feel like he was going blind.

His pulse skyrocketed. Or the heart’s did.
He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop breathing, breathing too much .

He was hyperventilating, and he didn’t even realize it until he heard the rustle of blankets beside him.

“Ford?” Fiddleford’s groggy voice cut through the haze. The bed creaked as Fiddleford shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. “Ford, are you okay?”

He didn’t answer.

Out of distant embarrassment, his hands shot up to cover his face.
His hands, he realised. He pulled them back away, his face slightly less weird than his hands.

Ford tried to slow his breathing, but the sensation only grew worse. His chest felt like it might burst, his nose ached like it was broken, and the walls of the room seemed to be closing in.

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” Fiddleford sat up fully now, leaning over to shake Ford’s shoulder. “We ain’t never goin’ to sleep…” He muttered under his breath. “Hey, c’mon now, you’re panickin’. That’s just a side effect sometimes, gettin’ high can mess with your nerves a bit.” His voice was softer now, tinged with concern despite the obvious annoyance lurking underneath the surface.

Ford shook his head vehemently, his hands still pressed to his face. “No, it’s not that. I can’t—” His words trailed off into incoherent muttering, fragments of thoughts he couldn’t fully articulate. “I can’t see.”

“Oh, what’re you on about— Ford, sit up.”

“I can’t stop thinking,” Ford rasped, his voice shaking. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes wide and dripping. He couldn’t even remember starting to cry. Was he? “About—About— He’s claustrophobic. He… he’s probably out there, stuck in his car, feeling like this.”

“Sit up.” Fiddleford said sternly, helping Ford sit. He leaned closer, his hand now on Ford’s back, rubbing soothing circles. “Ford, now you listen to me,” he said, his voice low and steady. “You gotta calm down, alright? You’re safe. Yer here with me. Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to you.”

Ford’s breathing hitched, and his voice cracked.
“It’s not me,” he whispered.

Fiddleford frowned, his hand pausing mid-circle.
“What’re you talkin’ about?”

“What if he’s not okay?” Ford continued, his voice cracking. “What if one day I get a call that tells me he’s dead? That he got into a fight, or an accident, or he—God, what if he’s stuck in the trunk of a car like he’d have nightmares about? What if he…?”

His words dissolved into a string of barely audible murmurs broken with tears, his lips forming shapes without producing much sound. Fiddleford rubbed the back of his neck, unsure of what to say.

“Stanford,” Fiddleford said gently, resting a hand on Ford’s arm. “Hey, hey now. You’re spiralin’. You gotta slow down. Just breathe with me, alright?”

Ford didn’t respond, his gaze unfocused and distant.

“Alright, fine,” Fiddleford muttered, his hand moving to Ford’s chest. He pressed down gently, feeling the erratic rhythm of Ford’s breathing. “Listen to me. Focus on that. Feel my hand on your chest? Breathe with me.”

Ford blinked slowly, his breathing hitching but gradually starting to sync with Fiddleford’s calming presence.

“That’s it,” Fiddleford said softly. “It’s just the high messin’ with you. You’re okay.”

But his thoughts triangulated backward, spinning out of proportion and toward the idea of his brother. What was he doing? Knowing him, he was fine, he had to be, he was the one with personality, the one that would be okay on his own.

Would he?
Why was he adamant on keeping Ford with him? Was he scared of being alone?
He was, and Ford knew that, but he didn’t care.

He just stood and watched their father throw him out the door, watched his father and did nothing.
“What was I supposed to do?” He muttered, and Fiddleford sighed.

How was he supposed to tell his father to stop?
He’d probably be kicked out along with Stanley.

It’d be justified, of course, but…

Fiddleford cupped Ford’s face with both hands, his thumbs brushing along his cheekbones. “Stanferd,” he said firmly. “You ain’t thinkin’ straight. Just look at me, alright? Look at me and try to slow down. You’re not alone.”

Ford’s eyes darted wildly for a moment before locking onto Fiddleford’s. The warmth in Fiddleford’s gaze cut through the haze, grounding him just enough to take in a shaky breath.

“There we go,” Fiddleford encouraged, his voice a soothing drag. “Nice and easy. It’s just the weed messin’ with your head, okay? Happens to the best of us. You’ll be fine in a few minutes.”

Ford’s chest heaved once more before he managed to inhale deeply. His heart still raced, but the overwhelming sense of suffocation began to fade, the world tilting back into something closer to normal.

Fiddleford didn’t pull away, his hands still steady on Ford’s face. “You’re alright,” he repeated softly, his thumbs brushing away the faint sheen of sweat on Ford’s temples. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Ford closed his eyes, his breathing finally evening out.
He wasn’t there, wasn’t staring at his car being taken by his brother, both mad and uncaring. He wasn’t there, watching for the next few weeks as that red car circled around the block for a while until it just stopped.

He shook his head.
Ford exhaled shakily, his body sinking slightly into the mattress. His chest still ached, but the panic was beginning to subside. Fiddleford held onto him, one hand on his back, the other buried in his hair.

“Get some rest now, alright? We’ll talk more in the mornin’ if you need to.”

Ford nodded faintly, his body heavy with exhaustion. 

“O-Okay,” Ford let out softly, still stammering.

Fiddleford ran his fingers through the man’s hair, and eventually the sound of his breathing slowed, and Ford calmed, starting to finally fall asleep.
“Thank you, Fiddleford.”