Chapter Text
Ford’s taxi pulled up in front of the looming brick gates of Backupsmore University, a place he was already convinced he’d regret choosing (He didn't). The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the crumbling sidewalks as groups of first-year students milled about, all eager to start what would surely be a long and exhausting journey of academic mediocrity.
Ford could already feel the exhaustion setting in, his mind swirling with the burden of decisions made too hastily and his own self-doubt. He sighed, slinging the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder, and stepped out of the taxi.
He was greeted by an oversized poster—“WELCOME TO BACKUPSMORE UNIVERSITY: WHERE THE FUTURE BEGINS! (Freshmen tours every hour!)”—suddenly plastered before him, and with it, an army of overly enthusiastic student volunteers. They held up brochures that promised “Rooms Almost Free of Bugs!” and “The Most Affordable Textbooks (But Beware the Hidden Fees).”
“Hey, you look lost!” one of the guides chirped at Ford, flashing him an overly bright smile. Ford resisted the urge to tell them they all looked like they were in a cult, but instead gave a tight nod.
“I'm just—” He wanted to say something snarky, but the guide’s grin widened as they handed him a pamphlet and launched into a rehearsed spiel.
"Did you know Backupsmore has a 98% graduation rate? You're going to love the student life here!"
Ford forced a smile, but before he could escape the barrage of excitement, he noticed the look of confusion on his face as he read the brochure. “Why does this thing say ‘almost free of bugs’? Are we supposed to be worried?”
The guide’s face faltered for just a moment before they rapidly shifted back into the perfect tour guide mode. “Oh, no, don’t worry about it. It’s just a thing we like to say! It’s like... a fun tradition! Anyway, let me show you where to grab your keys!”
Ford nearly dropped his bag. This was already turning out worse than he imagined.
He finally managed to break free, though not without nearly tripping over the freshman students hustling to the campus center with all their enthusiasm. He headed for the auditorium, where the dreaded freshman orientation talk was being held.
Inside, the auditorium smelled faintly of mildew, and the walls were lined with old college banners that looked like they'd been there for decades. The seats were packed with wide-eyed freshmen—clearly, they were still in the honeymoon phase of their excitement, even though Ford could already tell this was going to be the most painful hour of his life.
The stage was lit up with a large, overly enthusiastic banner: "WELCOME TO BACKUPSMORE UNIVERSITY! YOU TRIED!" In big, bold letters, like some sort of twisted encouragement. Ford stared at it, his brow furrowing. “You tried?” Was that supposed to make him feel better? More like it was acknowledging the unfortunate reality that anyone who ended up here was doing so because they had nowhere better to go.
The speaker at the podium, a middle-aged man in a extremely colorful t-shirt and white hair and beards that were too long, clapped his hands together to grab everyone's attention. “WELCOME! Welcome to Backupsmore, we know this isn't anyone's first choice...but at least you tried!”
There was an awkward pause, as if everyone was waiting for something more profound, but all they got was an awkward chuckle from the speaker.
“Here at Backupsmore, we believe in making everyone feel... at home!” he continued, clearly reading from a script. “We know you’re here because, well, you didn’t get into the top schools. But don’t worry! You’re among friends now. You’re not just a student, you’re part of the family!”
Ford had to bite his tongue to keep from groaning. What was this place? He was pretty sure even the speaker didn’t take himself seriously.
The audience—mostly freshmen who hadn’t yet realized the bleak reality of the next four years—clapped dutifully, but Ford couldn’t bring himself to join them. It wasn’t even a real round of applause; it was more like a nervous attempt to fit in with the general mood.
After what felt like an eternity of listening to empty promises and irrelevant facts about campus life, Ford finally managed to escape the auditorium, his mind a whirl of cynicism and sarcasm. He was pretty sure if there was a way to survive the next four years, it’d involve some combination of avoidance and sheer willpower.
He trudged toward the dorms, hoping for a quiet moment of solitude, but that was far from what he was about to get.
He reached the building and immediately noticed the familiar rows of lockers, standing ominously in the hallway like soldiers waiting to confuse and annoy him. “Since when are there lockers in college?” he muttered under his breath, already bracing for whatever absurdity would come next.
As he walked past, one of the lockers swung open with a loud clang, narrowly missing him and causing Ford to flinch. A student with an oversized backpack—clearly a freshman—gave him a quick nod of apology and muttered something that might’ve been “sorry” but was drowned out by the general chaos.
Ford finally reached the dorm office, his patience hanging by a thread. There, the receptionist greeted him with what Ford could only describe as a look that suggested this was the 800th time she had handed out keys to new students today.
“Hi, uh, I’m here for my room key?” Ford said, his tone somewhere between exasperated and resigned. The receptionist glanced at him blankly for a moment, her eyes scanning through a stack of papers in slow motion.
“Just a second,” she said flatly, then proceeded to shuffle papers, open and close drawers, and tap a pen rhythmically against the counter.
Ford resisted the urge to snap. He was tired. His room was probably going to be cramped, filled with bugs, and this whole day was just one long bad joke.
Finally, the receptionist handed him a small, scratched-up key with a label that read “Room 212” and a scribbled floor number that looked like it had been hastily scrawled by someone in a rush.
“Here you go,” she said, without looking up.
Ford didn’t wait for another word. He grabbed the key, threw his bag over his shoulder, and moved to leave, dodging another random freshman group huddling around a pamphlet titled “Surviving the First Week” (Ford was already convinced they would survive, and it wouldn’t be on their own merit).
By the time he reached his dorm room door, Ford had completely resigned himself to whatever bizarre, inconvenient world Backupsmore had in store for him. And yet... maybe, just maybe, somewhere between the chaos and the absurdity, there might be something worth sticking around.
Ford let out a sigh, clutching the keys to his dorm. He unlocked the door, stepping through, letting the weight of the silence fill the room.
“Oh, howdy! Didn’t think ya’d come ‘round at this moment.”
A cheerful voice from the right side of the dorm caught Ford off guard. His body tensed at the unexpected presence, but as his eyes adjusted, he noticed the silhouette of a boy sitting on one of the beds.
“Oh—hi there,” Ford muttered, still processing the situation. He hadn’t expected a roommate, but hey, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. At least he could use some conversation before the inevitable loneliness set in. He forced a small smile. “I assume you must be my roommate.”
Of course, he is. Who else would he be, Stanford? A burglar? An undercover government spy? Fantastic deduction skills, genius.
The other boy chuckled, straightening his back. “Well, maybe I ain’t, and I just snuck in here,” he said playfully, jerking his thumb toward the window. “But reckon I am. Name’s Fiddleford, but hell, call me whatever suits ya.”
Ford didn’t respond right away, instead taking a moment to glance around the dorm. It was small, but the signs of Fiddleford’s presence were already there.
- A “Make Love, Not War” poster.
- A banjo leaning against the foot of the bed.
- A half-unpacked suitcase.
- A solved Rubik’s Cube sitting perfectly balanced on the desk.
Ford’s eyes flicked back to Fiddleford. The way his long, dirty blonde locks fell over his face, the casual way he lounged—Ford found himself wondering, how long does it take him to comb that? Before quickly shutting that thought down.
And that’s when he realized he’d been staring for an awkwardly long time.
Fucking great.
“Oh! Sorry, I got a little carried away,” Ford said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “Stanford Filbrick Pines. But Ford works just fine.”
Fiddleford grinned and extended a hand. “Nice t’meet ya!”
Ford hesitated. His gaze flickered to Fiddleford’s hand, then his own. The extra finger on each of his hands wasn’t exactly something people saw every day. He was used to stares. Used to the awkward silences. But… he didn’t want to come off as rude, either.
With only a brief second of internal debate, he reached out and shook Fiddleford’s hand.
At first, Fiddleford didn’t seem to notice—until his eyes flicked downward, catching sight of Ford’s six fingers.
“Is that—six fingers?”
Fiddleford instinctively adjusted his grip, turning Ford’s hand slightly as if to get a better look. The realization of what he was doing hit him all at once, and he let go immediately.
“Oh—shit, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t’ve done that—”
Then, just as quickly, he laughed and rubbed his eyes. “Hoo-wee, I might need new specks because I didn’t notice that before!”
Ford blinked, caught off guard.
Fiddleford didn’t sound weirded out. If anything, he sounded mildly amused, like Ford having extra fingers was about as strange as finding an extra fry at the bottom of a bag.
Ford cleared his throat, trying to keep the fluster out of his voice. “Uh, yeah. It’s… genetic.”
“Well, ain’t that somethin’,” Fiddleford mused. “Bet it’s mighty useful, though. Had Y’ever been in a fight? Seems like an advantage.”
Ford frowned, thrown even further off balance. “I—I mean, no, not really. (Compulsive liar) And even if I had, it’s not like an extra finger makes you a better fighter—”
“Yeah, but think about it,” Fiddleford interrupted, grinning. “You ever punched someone? That’s one more knuckle hittin’ ‘em. More surface area. More impact. Hell, I’d be terrified to get socked by someone like that.”
Ford blinked. “I… have never considered the knuckle physics of punching someone with six fingers."
“Well, ya should think about it like that, Ford.” He plopped back onto his bed. “Also, think about it—everybody’s different from everybody else, right? But at the same time, everybody’s the same. But you—yer both the same and different. That makes ya special.”
Ford couldn’t help it. He laughed while his chest tightened at the words, something warm settling inside him.
“…I guess I never thought about it that way.” His smile came easier this time, a little more genuine. “Thanks, Fiddleford.”
“Aw, don’t thank me, that’s nothin’!” Fiddleford chuckled, reaching for the Rubik’s Cube on his desk and absentmindedly twisting it around in his hands. “Say—what kinda stuff ya into?”
“Well… I’d say I’ve got a special interest in science, and—” Ford paused mid-sentence, eyes catching on the way Fiddleford’s fingers moved with practiced ease, undoing and re-solving the cube like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Wait—how long have you been doin’ that? You’re, uh… really good at it.”
Fiddleford twirled the cube in his fingers before tossing it into Ford’s hands. “Ain’t been that long, I reckon. Wanna give it a go?”
Ford didn’t hesitate to nod.
...
Just gotta move this… no, wait, that ain’t it. Maybe if I—? Nope. Still wrong. Maybe if I twist—? Oh, for fuck’s sake—
...
How the hell did Fiddleford solve this little shit so fast?
“…Yeah, I can’t with this.”
Ford exhaled in defeat, extending the cube back toward Fiddleford, who barely held back laughter.
“Well, I could tell by yer face,” Fiddleford teased, twisting it effortlessly back into place.
"Oh, you can’t be serious,” Ford groaned, leaning back onto the bed and covering his face with both hands.
“But I am,” Fiddleford laughed. “Ain’t that hard once ya get the hang of it. Just takes practice, is all.”
“Uh-huh, sure.” Ford sat up again, rolling his eyes, but there was a glimmer of amusement there. Something told him he and this guy… might just make an interesting pair.
Little did he know, they were both equally intelligent—and equally dumbasses.
Ford shook his head, still vaguely bewildered by the conversation. He hadn't even been here an hour, and already, this guy had managed to completely throw off his expectations.
Fiddleford, seemingly satisfied with his newfound theory about Ford’s hypothetical punching power, stretched his arms over his head and let out a loud yawn. “Welp, reckon I oughta finish unpackin’.”
Ford nodded absently, but his eyes drifted again. He wasn’t staring, just… observing. Scientifically. Like one might study a particularly fascinating new species.
Fiddleford Hadron McGucket was an interesting specimen.
Ford took note of the way Fiddleford moved, how his fingers flitted quickly over his belongings—efficient, but absentminded, like he was thinking three steps ahead. He fished a small framed photo out of his bag, grinning fondly before setting it on his nightstand. Ford barely caught a glimpse—an older woman, a younger Fiddleford—but he was too distracted by how the other boy’s nose scrunched slightly as he concentrated on stuffing his suitcase under the bed.
It was… endearing.
Ford’s fingers tightened slightly around his pen.
Why am I paying attention to this?
His gaze snapped back to his own desk, focusing—forcing himself to focus—on his notebook. He flipped a page for no reason other than to seem occupied.
"You just gonna sit there scribblin' all day, or do you actually talk sometimes?"
Ford looked up, startled, to find Fiddleford watching him now, head tilted like he was studying him right back.
Busted.
“I talk plenty,” Ford muttered, pushing his glasses up his nose.
Fiddleford smirked. “Uh-huh. Sure, pal.”
Ford opened his mouth to argue, but Fiddleford had already moved on, digging into his bag again. A second later, he pulled out a snack—a bag of pretzels—ripped it open with his teeth, and tossed one into his mouth with the precision of someone who had probably done that way too many times.
Ford hesitated. "...Do you always eat like a raccoon scavenging behind a diner?"
Fiddleford snorted mid-chew. "Yer judgin’ me? What’d you eat today, huh?"
Ford hesitated. Then, barely audible, "...Coffee."
Fiddleford’s chewing slowed. His gaze narrowed. "Ford."
"It was a lot of coffee."
"Ford."
Ford sighed. "Fine. And a granola bar."
Fiddleford scoffed, tossing a pretzel at him. It bounced off Ford’s sweater and onto his desk. "Congratulations, you’re a malnourished cryptid. Eat somethin’ that ain't just caffeine and disappointment."
Ford rolled his eyes, but when Fiddleford held the bag toward him expectantly, he hesitated only a moment before grabbing a handful of pretzels.
They chewed in companionable silence for a while.
"You know," Fiddleford said after a moment, crunching thoughtfully, "I was real nervous about gettin' a roommate."
Ford blinked. "...You were?"
"Course! Who wouldn't be? Ya never know who you’re gonna get. What if they’re a neat freak? What if they’re a total slob? What if they steal all my socks?"
Ford frowned. "Do people steal socks?"
“In any case, tell me about you,” Ford said, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair. “What’re you into, Fiddleford?”
“I thought you’d never ask!” Fiddleford practically bounced out of bed, grabbing a notebook from out of nowhere. “So basically, I got all these theories ‘n blueprints ‘bout—well, so many things, ya know?” He flipped through the pages, then pointed to one in particular. “Like this! This here’s my most recent project—the theory that the entire universe is actually a hologram! Ain’t got solid proof yet, but I reckon it’s possible. So? Whaddya think?”
Ford leaned in, eyes scanning the notes. And then—
“Fiddleford… this theory is mathematically feasible!”
Fiddleford’s grin stretched wide as Ford’s words sank in. "Ya really think so?" He scooted closer, practically bouncing with excitement as he flipped to another page. "I been workin’ on this for a while now, tryin’ to figure out how we’d even go ‘bout provin’ it. See, if we assume the universe’s a projection, then what we perceive as reality could be more like—like a shadow of somethin’ else, somethin’ bigger!"
Ford’s heart sped up. Holy shit. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected his new roommate to be this brilliant. Most people he talked to about advanced theories either dismissed him, didn’t keep up, or just plain didn’t care. But Fiddleford? Not only did he understand, he was right there with him.
“Hold on, hold on—” Ford snatched the notebook, flipping through the pages with wide eyes. The scrawled equations, the diagrams—some of it was rough, but the concepts—oh, the concepts were there. This wasn’t just some half-baked idea; this was genuine, solid theorization.
“This… this is incredible,” Ford breathed, glancing up. Fiddleford’s face lit up at the praise. “There’s a lot to refine, sure, but damn, McGucket—this could be something huge.”
Fiddleford let out a breathless chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Aw, shucks, Ford—yer makin’ me blush over here!" He elbowed him lightly. "But you—you actually get it? Man, I been tryin’ to explain this to folks back home, but they just look at me like I got three heads!"
Ford huffed a laugh. "Tell me about it. Try talking about interdimensional travel at Thanksgiving and see how fast you get exiled to the kids’ table."
Fiddleford snorted. "Ain’t that the truth." He leaned in again, tapping the page. "But now I got someone to talk to ‘bout all this! Man, this is excitin’! I ain’t never had a friend who really got what I was goin’ on about!"
Friend.
Ford’s breath hitched for just a second. He swallowed, pushing down the lump in his throat. A friend.
He hadn’t even been here a full day, and already, someone was calling him that.
Ford looked at Fiddleford, at his eager smile, the genuine enthusiasm in his eyes. He felt something warm settle in his chest.
“…Yeah,” he said, a small smile pulling at his lips. “Me neither.”
For a moment, they just sat there, basking in the mutual understanding—the knowledge that, somehow, they’d found each other. Two outcasts, two oddballs, two minds that worked just a little too fast for everyone else.
And hell, maybe they would change the world someday.
The excitement buzzed between them like static electricity, the kind that made your hair stand on end before a storm. Fiddleford flipped to another page, jabbing at a half-finished sketch of what looked like a machine.
"Now, see—this here’s an idea fer a device that could test it! If we could measure discrepancies in reality—like, lil’ glitches in how the world oughta function—we could prove we’re inside a projection!" His eyes gleamed with an almost childlike wonder.
Ford adjusted his glasses, leaning in closer. "You mean… something that could detect inconsistencies in the fabric of our perceived universe? Like a… reality distortion analyzer?"
Fiddleford smacked the desk. "Ford, I like how ya think!" He grinned wide, nodding eagerly. "Exactly! Somethin’ like that! It’d have to be real precise, though—somethin’ that could pick up on the smallest shifts, kinda like how a seismograph catches tremors before an earthquake."
Ford’s mind raced, already calculating the components they’d need. "We’d need an extremely sensitive set of sensors. Quantum-level, if possible. Something capable of detecting fluctuations that the human brain wouldn’t register."
"Ooooh, I like where yer head’s at!" Fiddleford was practically vibrating with energy. "Maybe—maybe we could build it together? I mean, if ya ain’t too busy or nothin’."
Ford scoffed, shaking his head. "Are you kidding? Of course! This is exactly the kind of work I live for!"
Fiddleford whooped, throwing his hands up. "Now that’s what I like ta hear! Hot dang, Ford, this is gonna be somethin’!"
The two of them sat there, pouring over the notes, bouncing ideas back and forth like an electric current passing between them. It was exhilarating, the kind of intellectual thrill Ford hadn’t felt in years.
Hours passed in the blink of an eye, and before either of them realized, the sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep purples and fiery oranges.
Fiddleford stretched, groaning. "Hoo-wee, time flies when yer unravelin’ the mysteries of the universe, huh?"
Ford chuckled, rubbing his eyes. "I suppose so. But this… this is good work, Fiddleford. I really think we’re onto something."
Fiddleford beamed, tipping his hat back. "Yeah… reckon we are."
After nine long hours—and a cup of coffee that made Fiddleford look like he might explode—he was still hunched over his calculations, scribbling, erasing, muttering under his breath. Ford sat on the other side of the room, quietly watching him, watching the way Fiddleford’s knee bounced like a machine stuck in overdrive. He was so absorbed in the numbers, so deep in his own world, that Ford almost felt intrusive just existing in the same space.
Ford let out a breath, picking at a sticky note that had somehow attached itself to his sleeve. "How much longer do you need, Fiddleford?"
Fiddleford blinked as if just now remembering Ford was there. "What? Oh—uh, just a sec! One more look, promise." His voice was distracted but warm, like he genuinely meant it.
Ford sighed, stretching his back before standing up. "I think I’m gonna take a shower," he muttered, already moving toward the bathroom door.
He hesitated, his hand resting against the frame as he stole a glance at Fiddleford. Still hunched over, still chewing absently on the end of his pencil. The soft glow of the desk lamp cast a warm outline around his face, highlighting the way his long hair fell over his eyes.
That strange, unsettling pull twisted in Ford’s chest again.
What is it about him?
Never mind. He shook the thought off and closed the door behind him.
The bathroom was small, but it wasn’t cramped—at least, not in the way Ford’s childhood home had been, where the walls had felt like they were closing in if you stood still for too long. Here, the air was cool, the tiles clean, the sink empty except for a toothbrush and a half-used bar of soap.
Then Ford caught sight of himself in the mirror.
He stopped.
Shit.
His reflection looked worse than he expected. Dark circles under his eyes, his glasses slightly askew, exhaustion etched into every inch of his face. His shoulders were tense, like he’d been bracing for a hit that never came.
God, he looked like he hadn’t slept in three days. Which… well. He hadn’t.
Ford exhaled sharply, tearing his gaze away. Doesn’t matter. Just shower, get it over with. He stripped off his clothes and stepped into the tub, twisting the knob.
The water was ice-cold.
Fucking great.
Ford sucked in a sharp breath as the freezing droplets struck his skin, his muscles locking up from the shock. His fingers twitched at his sides. He should turn it off—should at least wait for it to warm up—but he didn’t move. He just stood there, letting the water run over him, letting the cold sting his arms, his shoulders—
His cuts.
The second the water hit them, fire shot up his skin.
Ford inhaled sharply, biting back a curse. His fingers curled against the porcelain. God, he was stupid. He knew this would happen, knew he should’ve covered them first, but he hadn’t thought—hadn’t wanted to think.
It burns.
The sting ran deep, but he forced himself to stay put. Just breathe. Go with it. Don’t be weak.
The words weren’t his own. They sounded too much like Filbrick’s, like the gruff, unyielding voice that had been drilled into him since childhood.
"Just deal with it, Stanford. You’re not some damn sissy."
His chest tightened. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the words away, willing the cold to drown them out.
Then, a different voice.
"You’re really going to let yourself drown in all this, huh?"
Ford stiffened.
Stan’s voice.
Clear as day, right outside the door.
"Quit acting like you can handle everything on your own, Ford! It’s not healthy. You think this is some kind of game?"
His brother had said that once—yelled it, actually. Ford could still picture him standing in the doorway of their shared room, arms crossed, frustration written all over his face.
"You think you’re the only one who matters?"
Ford let out a slow breath, forcing his eyes open. Water dripped down his face, his hair sticking to his forehead. He wasn’t back home. Stan wasn’t outside the door. It was just him. Just the silence and the cold and the weight of too many years of pushing people away.
He let his head fall back against the tiled wall, closing his eyes again.
And then—
"You don’t need to do it alone, Ford."
Ford stiffened. The voice wasn’t Stan’s this time. It was softer. A little unsure. A little awkward.
Fiddleford.
Ford’s stomach twisted.
Why—why was he thinking about that?
Had Fiddleford even said that? Not in those exact words, maybe. But something like it—something easygoing and offhanded, said back in the dorm just hours ago.
"Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ a little different, Ford."
"Everybody’s got somethin’ that makes ‘em stand out. It ain’t bad—it just is."
At the time, Ford had brushed it off, filed it away under just another meaningless nicety. But now, standing in the freezing water, shivering and exhausted, the words refused to leave him alone.
Would Fiddleford actually mean something like that?
Would he still think that if he knew the rest of it?
Ford inhaled sharply, his grip on the sink tightening.
No. No, it wasn’t okay.
It never had been.
He gritted his teeth, reaching blindly for the knob. He needed to turn this off, needed to get out before his thoughts swallowed him whole.
The water shut off with a sharp clack. Ford stood there for a moment, his body still trembling from the cold, from the exhaustion, from everything.
He wiped his face with a towel, rubbing harder than necessary, as if he could scrub away the thoughts, the memories, the ache in his chest.
"It’s fine," he muttered under his breath. "I can handle this." Liar
The words felt empty.
A knock on the door made him freeze.
"Ford?"
Fiddleford’s voice.
Muffled through the wood, but steady.
"You alright in there?"
Ford’s breath hitched.
His first instinct was to retreat, to bury whatever this was under layers of stubborn pride and muttered excuses.
"I’m fine," he called back, voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat. "I’ll be out in a second."
Silence.
Then the quiet creak of wood—Fiddleford shifting against the doorframe. He hadn’t left.
"You sure?"
Ford’s hands clenched around the towel. He wanted to snap that yes, he was sure, wanted Fiddleford to drop it, to walk away, to not see him like this.
But when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a quiet:
"I just… need a minute."
A long pause.
Then, finally—soft, understanding:
"I’ll be here when you’re ready."
Ford inhaled slowly, his grip on the towel loosening.
Maybe—maybe he didn’t have to go through all of this alone.
Maybe it was okay to let someone see him like this. Just once.
He took a breath, then—hesitant, but real—murmured: "I’m coming out."
A pause. Then, just as steady as before, Fiddleford replied, "Take your time."
Ford stared at the door handle, hesitated, then finally stepped back into the dorm.
A few hours later, the equation was done.
They sat on the floor, surrounded by pages of scrawled calculations and half-drunk cups of coffee. The chalkboard was filled, numbers and symbols tangled in a chaotic mess that, somehow, worked.
Ford stared at it, almost not believing it.
The moment they finally cracked the equation, it was as if the entire dorm exploded into motion. Fiddleford whooped, throwing his arms up so wildly that a stack of papers went flying off the desk. Ford, running on pure adrenaline and maybe a little too much coffee, barely noticed before Fidds tackled him into a one-armed hug.
"I told you we'd get it!" Fiddleford crowed, grinning ear to ear. "All that frettin’ for nothin’, Stanford!"
Ford let out a breathless laugh, his face aching from the sheer force of his own smile. "I wasn’t fretting, I was—"
"Overthinkin’? Second-guessin’? Havin’ a crisis existential or otherwise?"
Ford huffed, but it lacked any real bite. "Okay, maybe I was fretting."
Fiddleford clapped him on the back. "Well, now we gotta commemorate the moment. C’mon, picture time!"
Ford barely had a second to protest before Fiddleford was digging through his things, pulling out a battered old Polaroid camera. They cleared enough of the desk to set it up, Fiddleford adjusting the angle before running over to Ford’s side.
"Okay, say ‘We’re the smartest guys at BMU and ain’t nobody stoppin’ us!’"
Ford snorted. "That’s way too long to—"
The camera clicked. The flash went off.
And just like that, the moment was frozen in time.
Ford didn’t even realize how ridiculous he looked until the picture finished developing. Post-it notes still clung to his face and sweater, his hair was an absolute mess, and yet—he looked happy. They looked happy.
Fiddleford tucked the photo into his notebook. "There. Proof we ain’t just a couple of madmen babblin’ about the universe."
Ford scoffed. "Debatable
Fiddleford laughed as he shoved the photo into Ford’s hands. "There. Now if you ever start doubtin’ yourself again, you just look at that and remember what it feels like to win."
Ford swallowed. The edges of the photo were warm from Fiddleford’s fingers. He turned it over, running his thumb along the glossy surface, committing every detail to memory.
"Yeah," he murmured. "I will."
Later that night, after Fiddleford had passed out mid-ramble in his own bed, Ford lay awake in the dark. The room was quiet save for the soft rustling of trees outside their window and Fiddleford’s steady breathing across the room. The equation—their equation—was complete, scrawled proudly across their notes. They had done it.
And yet.
Ford turned onto his side, reaching for the Polaroid on his nightstand. In the dim light, he could just barely make out their faces—Fiddleford’s exuberance, his own rare, unguarded joy.
He let out a quiet breath and set the photo back down.
For now, things were good.
For now.
And maybe, if he was lucky, they'd stay that way.
They wouldn't