Work Text:
Standford's body was betraying him. Last night he'd "forgotten" to sleep while attempting to compile enough evidence to prove his newest theory. The library's poor filing system was the real culprit behind his all-nighter, or at least that was the lie he repeated to himself. Now he was slumped over his table, barely processing the lecture that echoed throughout the room. His index finger idly traced over the letters on his textbook cover, and a small collection of dust was beginning to collect under his touch. His whole body felt weak. His arms were near ready to collapse, and his legs had long been asleep. If only he'd remembered to stop for coffee this morning, maybe he'd be a bit better off. His physical state began to weigh on him more and more as he noticed his lack of hygiene over the past few days. His hair was tangled and uncombed, his clothes-which he'd forgotten to change-were wrinkled from the previous day. His breath was surely vile, and he could only imagine what had become of his well-trimmed stubble after so long not bothering to shave.
Normally, Fiddleford would give him a kind reminder when he started to drift into these patterns. A soft chiding always seemed to affect him enough, and he could usually balance his studies and his health. Unfortunately, Fidds had gone home for a family emergency a few days back, and Ford hadn't received any calls about when he might be back. Tennessee, despite being just a few states away, felt like another continent to Ford.
He was quickly brought out of his thoughts when students began packing up their bags and starting towards their next destination. It brought Ford temporary solace to know he'd finished his classes for the day. As he started for his dorm, he could only think of Fiddleford. Normally, this was the part of day where he could return to the safety of his boyfriend's arms and offload the day's struggles to the one soul who truely cared. It was only around Fiddleford that Ford felt entirely safe, and the small moments in his arms were the only full relaxation he allowed himself to have. They balanced each other perfectly. Fidds was a caring soul. He loved art, music especially, and he could pour his soul into a tune on the banjo. He was unbelievably smart, and an incredible inventor as well, but his most prominent trait was easily his compassion. When Fidds loved someone, he loved them deeply. He was nurturing all the way to his core, and he would be willing to give up everything if it meant doing something for the person he loved. To Ford, there was no greater thing than to be loved by Fiddleford. And to Fiddleford, there was no greater thing than to have someone return your love.
Stanford's pace slowed a bit as he once again got lost in thought. Fiddleford's absence left him feeling incomplete in a way he never could've predicted. With Fidds, Ford felt like he had a purpose. Sure, his studies were important as well, but the books he read couldn't hold his hand on rough days. The whiteboard where he wrote his theories couldn't chide him for pulling an all-nighter. The textbooks he studied for hours couldn't look him in the eyes and smile, even after knowing all of his faults. His work could give him some perspective, but it could never make him feel truly seen. Not in the way Fiddleford could.
He hastily pushed open the door to the stairwell, starting up the steps. A loud "boom" echoed throughout the room as the door closed, but he didn't seem to notice. His movements were sloppy in his exhaustion, and he turned a corner a bit too quickly. His side caught on the railing, guaranteeing a bruise in the near future. Despite the pain jolting through his body, he hardly paid any mind to the sensation at all. He was far too roped into his recollections. His thoughts raced on:
Sometimes Fiddleford would get caught up in his anxiety on late nights. He was always an anxious man, it was just part of who he was, but when that anxiety snowballed, he became a completely different person. His leg bounced fast enough to become a blur, his quick speaking bordered on nonsensical rambling, and his eyes would dart around the room like each spot would burn him if he hovered his gaze on it long enough. In moments like these, it was only Standford that could calm him down. He'd place his hand on Fidds' knee, not forcing it down, but just resting it there. He'd speak in a low, soft voice. He'd whisper sweet nothings to him, constantly reassuring him that he was safe. He'd stay. He'd care. And he was the only one who Fiddleford would let close enough to do so.
Standford felt almost crafted to be Fiddleford's other half. While they shared their love for knowledge, technological advancements, and other nerdy crap, they were also opposites in many ways. While Fiddleford was bobbing up and down, freaking out about possible negative outcomes, and doubting their work, Stanford was calm, reassuring, and stable. He was always a solid shoulder to lean on. When Standford was over-caffeinated, sleep deprived, and stretched to his limit, Fiddleford was there-standing with open arms-ready to give Stanford the break he needed. On late nights where Stanford could ramble for hours about his newest discovery, Fiddleford was there to listen. On late nights where Fiddleford could recollect stories from Tennessee and talk about them for hours, Stanford was there to listen. At midnight when Fiddleford felt alone, Stanford would scoop him up into his arms and cuddle with him until he was relaxed enough to sleep. And when either of them felt too annoying, broken, unstable, or offputting to ever be lovable, his other half would be there. He'd look at him. He'd look at the doubt, hurt, and fear inside the other's heart, and he'd smile. He'd reassure his love that he loved all of the other, and that included the messy bits. But now Ford was alone, walking down the red and gold carpet that led to his dorm, unsure when his boyfriend would return. He kept his eyes focused on his feet as he walked.
When he reached his room, he let out a soft sigh as he turned the key. The door slid open, making a soft "shhh" sound across the wooden floor. The dim light of the setting sun was the only light source, and Ford'd eyes took a moment to adjust. Ford's gaze drifted upward to look at his messy room, only to find that something had changed. Energy drink cans no longer littered the floor, his bed was made, his clothes had been picked up from the floor and put away, and standing in the middle of it all was a small, skinny man with a long mustache and a sheepish smile stretched across his face.
"Fidds!" Ford cried out, suddenly filled with enough energy to drop his bags and run to his boyfriend. Fiddleford outstretched his arms to hug him back, and the laugh he let out was one of the most wonderful sounds Ford had ever heard.
"Missed me that much? I was only gone for 3 days, Standford." Fiddleford commented, smiling. "I made a point to clean up the mess you left in my absence." Ford blushed sheepishly.
"I had a hard time without you I suppose..." Fiddleford took his hand and gave him a reassuring smile.
"Hey, I had a bit of a rough time too, believe it or not. I have a lot to tell ya, but first, ya need some sleep." Fiddleford rested his hand on Stanford's cheek, brushing over his eyebags with his thumb. Stanford looked down, attempting to hide his clear sleep deprivation.
"I...I suppose you're right. Though when I'm rested I must hear about your adventures."
Fiddleford took his hand, led him to their bed, and sat him down. "You will, darlin'. Now, I've got some schoolwork to catch up on and you've got some sleepin' to be doin'." He paused, taking a moment to look at his boyfriend once again after days of no contact. A smile broke out across his his face, and he leaned down to place a kiss upon his love's forehead. "Goodnight, Standford."
Ford's expression had melted into pure admiration as he softly replied, "Goodnight, Fidds."