foolishmortals | all that glitters is gold [AFTERPARTY]

Entry tags:

round 1,
week 4

all that glitters is gold [AFTERPARTY]

[It's been a very long, and very upsetting morning, and honestly, Ford is feeling goddamn drained. All the events of the day have hit him like a ton of bricks. And as much as he wants nothing more than to sleep for about a week...well. There's work to do.

After talking it over with Fiddleford, his first mission is hitting the kitchen and scraping together all the eggs, potatoes, and onions he can find. It takes him a good few hours, but eventually he's got five big casserole dishes full of kugel, steaming hot, fresh out of the oven. He stacks up a big pile of plates, forks, and serving utensils and carries it all into the lounge in trips.

Next is the business of the still. Between the two of them, the two Fords manage to get it into the lounge and set it up on a table where it's easy to access. Ford also pilfers a big glass jug of apple juice for the kids and puts it nearby. All the adults are free to partake of a cup of Fiddleford's sugar shine. They'll be needing it, tonight.

Lastly, are the notes. Ford writes them all out in his neat, block lettering, and slips one under each door—pausing at the doors of the deceased with a sad frown each time.

The lounge is quiet while they wait for everyone to arrive, save for the sounds of banjo music....

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[Ford lets out a breath through his nose, trying to steady his nerves, trying not to show how much that soft stroking of Fiddleford's thumb is getting to him. He's not used to being touched, really, not anymore. Not like that. Not by someone who really cares about him.

After a long moment, a little of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders, and he nods.]

...Okay. Okay.

[There's a lump forming in his throat, damn it. But the knowledge that this isn't going to...to ruin their relationship before it even gets off the ground is helping.]

Just remember. You're my best friend. I already care about you that much, this isn't goin' to change it.

[Sure, trusting Ford is still difficult when his brain starts acting up, but loving Ford is easy (saying he loves Ford is still hard). No amount of scar tissue would change that.

... Something else catches his eye, though.]

Is that... oh my lord. Is that the tattoo?

[Ford manages a twitch of his mouth that wants to be a smile, and turns his head to plant a kiss on the back of Fiddleford's hand.]

Thank you. I'll try and rem—

[He freezes, and this time instead of being worried or sad, he's just straight-up embarrassed.]

...Should've known you'd notice that sooner or later. Yes, that is unfortunately the tattoo.

That is the best dang thing I've seen all day, and I spent a good half an hour talkin' to drunk Jiminy Cricket.

[This is incredible. It's beautiful. It's majestic. It's doing an awful lot to lighten the mood, too, which is the important part. He wants that easy rapport back.]

[Ford's eyebrows lift a little incredulously, but he's actually smiling now. Just a little one.]

Well, if I've topped the drunk cricket, then I'm glad you saw it.

Y'know -- and don't take this the wrong way or nothin' -- but it suits you.

[It suits the part of Ford not a lot of people get to see but with which he became intimately familiar during their time as friends. The side of Ford that wore a cape to play a two-person round of DDnMD. The side of Ford that would talk about wanting to date Mothman in a way that made you question whether he was joking or serious. The side of Ford that collects misshapen jellybeans.

He leans in to press a soft kiss to that stupid, pastel star.]

[Alright, he can laugh at that. It's true, and he knows it. Maybe that's why his drunken self decided to get it. An homage to keeping things weird.

He relaxes a little, feeling that kiss to his neck, and breathes in a full breath for the first time in a few minutes. He turns his head enough that he can press a kiss against the fluffy nest of hair atop Fiddleford's head in kind.]

Thank you. Really.

[Fiddleford, in this moment, realizes something very distressing: he doesn't want to let go. He doesn't want to take his hand off Ford's shoulder and put space between them again.

Will you be warm enough?

He realizes, very late, what Ford was really asking.]

Do you want -- We could just. We could just share the bed. S'big enough for two. If you wanted.

[He says it very soft, right against Ford's neck, because he isn't sure if he can look directly at him while he asks.]

[His face still pressed against Fiddleford's hair, Ford's mouth spreads into a slow smile. He's so relieved that he didn't have to be the one to suggest it that any residual distress melts away. He'll still feel self-conscious about his scars, of course; that probably won't ever go away. But his immediate worries are over, and Fiddleford is asking if he wants to share the bed, and suddenly Ford feels better than he has all week.]

I think...that sounds very nice.

[Like he actually had to think about it.]

[Oh. Oh good. It went over well.

Like there was any way it wouldn't.]

Well... well. Good.

[He pulls back and finally lets his hand drop from Ford's shoulder. He's encountered a new problem and the new problem is he won't sleep in his trousers but now that he's asked Ford to share the bed with him taking them off might read a little more blue than he means. He's definitely not overthinking this or anything.]

Just goin' to finish gettin' undressed, then.

[He pauses with his hands at his belt.]

Not that I'm anglin' for anythin' mind you. Just. Pants. I already wear them every day, I probably shouldn't sleep in -- um.

[Nailed it.]

[Ford nods, letting Fiddleford pull back and finally letting his turtleneck drop to the floor. He's not even really paying attention, honestly, until Fiddleford pauses like that and begins to explain himself. Ford watches with his brows rising closer and closer to his hairline.]

I know. Don't worry. I'm not going to...make a move on you, if that's what you're worried about.

[He reaches for his own belt buckle and starts to take off his pants.]

Might as well make ourselves comfortable.

[He should absolutely not feel disappointed with that response. For god's sake, they may have been randy twenty-somethings last time but they aren't now. They can take this slow. Be a little restrained.

Unless they have less time than they think, unless tonight is the last night they have together, but he can't think about that like it's a real possibility or he'll break down all over again. It's fine. They have time. He has to believe they have time.

He unbuckles his belt and steps out of his pants, then sets both them and his shirt aside on one of the end tables. If he distracts himself with that he can put off turning back around and seeing Ford with his pants off, which is a thing he's seen many times before but never in this context.

Well. Once in this context.]

I didn't think -- I mean. I just wanted to be sure we were. Ah. On the same page.

[He isn't sure if it's the right page to be on, is the thing.]

[Ford, for his part, is just minding his own business on his side of the bed—oh, God, are they assigning sides of the bed already—trying not to think about Fiddleford McGucket in his underwear. In his underwear, in Ford's bed. When Ford is also in his underwear ohhhhh boy okay, let's see, quantum theory. Quantum theory requires lots of focus and isn't remotely sexy. Unless you're into that sort of thing.

Ford pulls off his undershirt and picks up his comforter and pillow from the floor, giving the blanket a good shake before laying it across the bed.]

Of course. All clear. Just you and me and that page.

[In their underwear.]

[Fiddleford steels himself. It's just Ford. It's just Ford, in his underwear, and oh sweet Jesus he did not expect the undershirt to be off too and how can any one man have that much chest hair.

No. No, god dammit, you are pushing forty and you do not need be acting like this right here and right now over something as benign as a man in his skivvies.]

Mmhm. Clear as glass.

[He pulls back the covers on his side of the bed (his side, they are picking sides, he can't believe this) and climbs in. It's fine. It's a big bed. There's two pillows -- more since he brought his own. They can both fit in here without it ever being anything close to racy.]

Well. Good.

[See, they're doing fine. They're just going to get into bed and go to sleep like two normal human beings. They're going to sleep and Ford is going to ignore his erection and take a very long shower in the morning. It's fine.

He only hesitates for a moment before following suit and climbing into his side of the bed, pulling the blankets up around his chest and setting his glasses on the nightstand. Ford reaches for the lamp switch, and then pauses to glance over his shoulder at Fiddleford.]

Goodnight, Fiddleford.

...Sweet dreams.

I sure hope so.

G'night, Stanford.

[And now he is going to put his glasses on the bedside table and close his eyes and go to sleep like a normal adult man sharing a bed with his best friend who he also might be dating semi-secretly. It's fine.

If he shifts in the night and winds up on Ford's side of the bed, well, he was asleep. These things just happen.]

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all that glitters is gold [AFTERPARTY]

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closes this thread out with some good good spooning