#op. 71

     Ford exhaled, watching the smoke unfurl from his own cigarette, his mind a restless hum of half-formed equations and shifting patterns. His knee bounced, an unconscious, jittery rhythm, his body unable to match the pace of his thoughts. “If we want the system to sustain itself without a hard reset every time we hit a high-energy event, we need better buffering.” He gestured vaguely with his cigarette, nearly knocking into Fidds’ arm. “The ore’s output spikes too erratically. We need something that can absorb and redistribute the excess before it fries the circuit.”

     “Quit bouncing your leg or this is gonna come out crooked,” Fidds muttered.

     Ford forced himself to still. “Sorry, I’m just excited.” He took another drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for a beat before exhaling. “I was thinking—if we configure a layered capacitor matrix, something that can cycle the overflow before it hits critical, we can smooth out the draw. And if we tie it to an active relay system, we won’t have to manually adjust the thresholds every time we recalibrate.”

     Fidds hummed, combing through the uneven layers before snipping away another curl. “So a real-time modulation loop—treatin’ it like a fluctuating power source instead of tryin’ to regulate it at a fixed rate?”

     “Exactly,” Ford said, straightening slightly. “We need to predict oscillation patterns before they happen. If we can get ahead of the waveform, we can redistribute power dynamically. That way, the system doesn’t just react to instability—it compensates.”

     Fidds let out a slow breath, considering. “That’s tricky.” He took another drag of his cigarette, the ember flaring red before he flicked away the ash. “If we don’t get the timing right, we’re just shufflin’ the problem around instead of fixin’ it. Best case, we smooth out the flow. Worst case, we overload a different node and the whole thing locks up.”

     Ford nodded, tapping his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray. “I’ve been running projections, testing different modulation intervals. There’s a sweet spot between overcorrection and lag. We just have to find it before we scale up.”

     Fidds made a small sound—somewhere between acknowledgment and mild amusement. “You been up all night thinkin’ about this?”

     Ford huffed a quiet laugh, tipping his head forward as Fidds guided it, his neck bowing under the weight of his own thoughts. “Barely slept,” he said.

     Fidds made a small sound in the back of his throat, not quite sympathy, not quite amusement. “Ain’t that always the way,” he murmured.

     Ford tapped his fingers against the table a couple times. “I figure I’ll spend the next couple weeks stress-testing the relay system, making sure it holds under simulated conditions. If we can fine-tune the redistribution speed, we should be able to handle a full-scale field test before the month’s out.”

     Fidds snorted. “Keep it to the simulations, can’t have you blowin’ yourself up before I get back.”

     Ford smirked. “Wouldn’t be real progress if something didn’t explode at least once.”

     Fidds chuckled, shaking his head. “You got some strange ideas of fun, Pines.”

     The scissors made their final pass through Ford’s hair before Fidds ran the come upward from the nape of Ford’s neck, and then there was a pause—just the quiet hiss of their cigarettes burning, the faint creak of the old kitchen chair beneath him. Fidds tapped the excess ash from his cigarette into a half-drunk mug of coffee, squinting at the back of Ford’s head.

     Then, a small noise, a brief exhale—something between a laugh and a grunt. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered, tilting Ford’s head forward. His thumb pressed lightly against the ridge of Ford’s spine as he examined something at the back of his head.

     Ford blinked, pulled abruptly from the tangled web of equations in his head. “What?”

        “You got some grays back here.”

     Ford’s brow furrowed. “What?” he repeated, sharper this time, his hand reaching blindly toward the back of his head.

     Fidds snipped a small section and reached around, depositing it into Ford’s palm. “See for yourself.”

     Ford brought them up to his face, the salt-and-pepper strands stark against his skin. His stomach twisted, a strange, leaden weight settling in his chest. He turned them over in his fingers, rubbing them against his thumb like the texture might reveal it was simply a trick of the light. But the color wasn’t uniform—some were almost entirely silver, others brown streaked with pale gray, the pigment leeching out in uneven waves.

     Fidds laughed, the sound light and easy—just another jab, just another thing to tease Ford about. “Sorry, big guy,” he said, setting the comb down with a quiet clink. He patted Ford’s shoulder, not noticing the way he stiffened beneath his hand. “Happens to the best of us. You ain’t no spring chicken.”

    Ford exhaled sharply through his nose, slumping back in the chair. He reached up, tugging at a curl near his temple, stretching it straight, pulling it down over his eye. He twisted the strand between his fingers, staring at the color—deep, rich brown, still untouched. He didn’t know why he was focusing on it, why he felt the need to look at it for so long—maybe to commit it to memory.

     Fidds gave a small, thoughtful hum. “Well, guess it kinda suits you,” he said offhandedly. “It’ll give ya that distinguished look—y’know, professor and all that.” He ran his fingers through the back of Ford’s hair again, this time more absentmindedly, like he was just making sure he hadn’t missed a spot. “’Course, means you’ll be lookin’ like an old man before I do.”

     Ford let out a burst of air, barely a scoff. He pressed the cigarette butt lightly against his teeth a few times before speaking. His voice was quieter now, like it had to fight to make it past his lips.

        “Yeah, it uh—it runs in the family…” he said.

     Fidds’ hand hesitated. A fraction of a second, barely perceptible, but there.

     Fidds resumed the motion, slower this time, gentler. He didn’t say anything right away. He wasn’t sure if he should. Instead, he took another drag from his cigarette, the smoke leaving through his nose as his eyes scanned his work, checking that everything was even—but out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the movement.

        Ford’s leg. Bouncing lightly up and down again.

     Not like before. Not with that eager, restless energy from earlier, when his mind was alight with discovery, when he couldn’t sit still because his body couldn’t contain the momentum of his thoughts. No, this was something smaller, something more contained. A twitch. A subtle, nervous movement. Fidds didn’t tell him to stop this time.

     Ford took a slow drag from his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs too long before exhaling. “Thanks for doing this before you head out.”

     Fidds exhaled too, though it came with a quiet sigh. “No problem, bud. You needed it.” His fingers did a final ruffle through Ford’s freshly cut hair before he unclipped the towel from around his neck, shaking loose curls onto the floor.

     The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t the easy kind—the kind they usually sat in without issue, just two men smoking, working, sharing space. No, this one settled into the room differently, a bit heavier.

     And Ford, still staring down at the cigarette in his hand, didn’t move to break it.

     Fidds took one last glance at Ford’s reflection in the darkened kitchen window, his freshly cut hair a little uneven where it curled at the edges, before turning away and tapping the ash from his cigarette into the sink. The ember flared for a brief second before dimming, burning low. He checked his watch.

     “Gotta get goin’ here soon if I’m gonna make that flight,” he said, grabbing his button-up from the back of one of the dining chairs. He shook it out, the fabric snapping lightly in the quiet before he started pulling the sleeves over his arms.

     Ford exhaled and nodded absently as he stood and went for the broom. He tapped the cigarette over the edge of the ashtray, watching the embers flick away before snuffing it out entirely. 

     Fidds kept talking, rolling his shoulders to settle the fabric. “Fridge is stocked up for ya, but two weeks is a while, so you’ll probably have to go into town at some point.” He paused, shaking his head as he fastened the buttons. “Try not to get into any fistfights.” His tone was light, but there was an edge of sincerity to it, a pointedness in the way he glanced over.

     It earned a quiet chuckle from Ford, one that loosened some of the tension that had been hanging between them. “You know me, Fid, I’m no trouble maker,” he said, sweeping the last of the stray hair into the dustpan.

     Fidds huffed, shaking his head with a half-smirk, but something about Ford’s tone made him hesitate before replying.

     Instead, he stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Ford’s shoulder. His palm was warm, steady, grounding. “I mean it, Ford. Take care of yourself while I’m gone.”

     Ford didn’t look up, just brushed the last of the hair into the bin with the edge of his foot.

     Fidds squeezed his shoulder lightly. “Don’t get too caught up down in that lab. Please?”

     Ford didn’t answer right away. He just kept sweeping, his movements slower now, almost absentminded. Then, finally, he muttered, “Sure.”

        But it didn’t sound like a promise.

     Fidds didn’t press. He just exhaled through his nose, brief but knowing, and moved toward the door where his bags sat idly against the frame. His coat hung from the rack above them, and he pulled it down, giving it a sharp shake before threading his arms through the sleeves. His hat followed, settled easily onto his head with a practiced tug at the brim.

     Then he crouched, unzipping the duffel at his feet. His fingers sifted through its contents, pausing when they found their mark.

        “Hold out your hand,” he said.

     Ford hesitated, brow pinching slightly, but followed the instruction.

     Fidds pulled something about the size of his fist from the bag, his grip careful as he placed it into Ford’s palm. “Happy Hanukkah,” he said.

        Ford looked down. A snow globe.

     He turned it slightly, brows furrowing as he examined the tiny scene inside. Then, slowly, his lips parted. The realization hit him in pieces—the shape of the porch, the placement of the chairs, the shed out back, the exact curve of the gravel driveway. It was the cabin.

     The level of detail was almost unsettling. The way the shingles layered over each other, the faint etching of wood grain in the porch railing. Even the path of the fence line, twisting slightly where the old post leaned.

     Ford shook his head slightly, looking up at Fidds, who was already grinning.

        “Hanukkah ended on Saturday,” Ford said.

     Fidds huffed, shoving Ford’s shoulder. “You bastard, you gotta tell me this shit!”

     Ford laughed, the sound breaking through something in his chest as he gave the globe a shake, watching the snow swirl and settle over the tiny model. “How’d you even make this?”

     Fidds just shrugged, adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”

     Ford exhaled softly, his fingers tightening around the glass. “Thank you, Fiddleford. This is… very thoughtful.” He hesitated, rolling his thumb along the base of the globe. “I… don’t have anything to give you.”

     Fidds shook his head, brushing it off with a quiet laugh. “That’s alright.” He leaned down, zipping his bag shut before straightening again. “Just make sure that little critter in the lab stays fed.”

     Ford sighed, tipping his head back slightly. “Yes, wouldn’t want anything happening to our class pet.”

     Fidds snorted. “He likes green apple,” he said, pointing a finger at Ford as if to emphasize it. “But don’t give him too much.”

     Ford rolled his eyes but smiled. “You got it, Dolittle.” He nodded toward the door. “Now get going. Wouldn’t want you to miss your flight.”

     Fidds lingered for a second longer, eyes scanning Ford’s face like he wanted to say something else. But whatever it was, he left it unsaid. Instead, he just clapped Ford’s shoulder again, squeezed once—as to emphasize the something in the nothing, then grabbed his bag and stepped out the door.

     Ford stood by the window, one hand resting against the cold sill, watching as the glow of Fidds’ taillights faded down the gravel drive. The car’s low rumble drifted through the trees, tires crunching over the uneven road, kicking up dust that swirled in the weak light of the porch lamp before settling back into the quiet. The wind had picked up, rattling the loose pane in the kitchen window, making it shudder in its frame. It carried through the house, slipping through cracks in the walls, whistling under the door—a restless presence moving through the empty spaces Fidds had left behind.

     Ford didn’t move. He stood there long after the car had disappeared, staring at the dark stretch of road, at the empty place where the headlights had been, at the trees swaying against the late afternoon sky.

     The house felt different now. Still, but not peaceful. Hollowed out.

        “And then there were two.”

     Bill’s voice curled at the base of Ford’s skull, thick with something half-amused, but mostly indulgent, stretching itself out just to hear the sound of it. A deliberate pause, a silence filled with its own meaning. Then, finally:

     “So.” Drawn out, lazy. “What are your plans for the solstice?”

     Ford glanced at the empty stretch of road, then away. “You’re looking at it.”

     “Oh, come on, Fordsy, no garlands?” Bill’s voice lilted in mock disappointment. “No lights? No merriment?” He let the words stretch, savoring the shape of them. “I certainly wouldn’t mind watching you swing that axe again. Lug in one of those trees that stay green…forever. What are they called?”

        “Evergreen”

     “Yes! Evergreen…well, not after the ritual—you humans do that this time of year, right? Hack one out of the earth, drag it inside, let it die slowly in the corner?”

     Ford shook his head, lips pressing into something like a smirk. “I’m Jewish.”

     Bill hummed, almost thoughtfully. “Right, right…  The eight crazy nights and whatnot.”

     “Yeah.” Ford muttered, fingers absently tugging at the hairs at the nape of his neck, a restless, unconscious movement. After a beat, he let his hand fall, something final in the gesture.

     “I thought all you humans flocked back to the nest for those sorts of things.” Bill’s voice took on that probing, casual lilt, the way he always did when he already knew the answer but wanted to see how it would unfold anyway. “Big, noisy feasts—everyone yelling and interrupting each other. But for some reason, there’s always one of the older ladies commenting on who’s gained weight.”

     That—that—did get a chuckle out of Ford. Brief. Quiet. The kind that escaped before he could smother it. “You’re not too far off.” His gaze flicked, almost involuntarily, back to the window. The road was empty. Whatever he’d been looking for—whatever he’d half-expected to see—wasn’t there. He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes.

        “But not you?”

     Ford sparked a match, the flare of it sharp in the dim light. The scent of sulfur curled at the edges of the room. He inhaled deeply, letting the burn settle behind his ribs before shaking his head. “No.”

        “Certainly someone’s waiting for you?”

     Ford exhaled, smoke rising in slow, heavy spirals. He didn’t answer immediately, and when he did, his voice was tight, controlled, like it was carefully smothering something. “It already passed. It—” He stopped, rubbed a hand over his mouth, then shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

     A quiet stretched between them, long and thin.

        “I see.” Bill replied simply.

     Bill didn’t push further, which was almost stranger than if he had.

     Ford turned from the window, leaving a slow trail of smoke behind him as he descended the stairs into the lab. The shift was immediate—the crisp chaos of the underground space swallowing him whole.

     He shrugged on his lab coat, rolling his shoulders to settle it properly, then absently straightened a row of labeled vials as he passed them. At the far wall, a large canister housed a roll of tightly wound graph paper. He unraveled a clean stretch, slicing it neatly against the razor at the dispenser’s edge.

     The workbench was scattered with old notes, pages softened at the corners, numbers running together in thick graphite. He smoothed the sheet down, clipping it in place, then reached for one of his notebooks. His fingers skimmed past calculations, sketches, stray annotations, flipping with precision until he found the page he wanted:

     A rough concept. Barely a blueprint. Just the beginning of something—a mess of equations, half-solved formulas, notes scrawled hastily in the margins.

     Ford sat, rolling his chair closer to the desk. His pencil hovered over the page for a moment before pressing down, thickening the lines of an equation, adjusting a variable.

     His pencil moved, quick, deliberate. Adjusting for wavelength distortion, refining the detection parameters. The energy output was still too unstable; he’d have to work through that.

     He began marking adjustments, recalibrating, erasing, rewriting. The slow drag of graphite against paper filled the silence, an almost meditative repetition. He sketched out a rudimentary lens array, scratched it out, trying again. There were still problems to solve—the signal resolution, for one, wasn’t precise enough. The data output had too much noise, and if he couldn’t isolate the event patterns cleanly, then—

     He tapped the pencil against the margin, thinking.

     Bill, uncharacteristically, was still silent. It was the kind of quiet Ford recognized—not absence, but expectation. Waiting for something.

     Ford could feel Bill tracing the movements of his hands—not the lines or the figures on the paper, but the motions themselves. The careful precision, the obsessive repetition of it all. 

     He could feel it in his bones, that quiet weight between his shoulder blades—a constant, soft presence, like the brush of fingertips just shy of contact. It was a feeling so familiar, so entwined with his own body that he could forget it was there, and then remember it again, in the space of a breath—oh, how quickly it made him forget the mess.

     He set the pencil down and leaned back in his chair, taking a slow, deliberate pull from his cigarette, exhaling smoke toward the dark corners of the lab.

     “It’s a time to do things you enjoy with people you like.” Ford said simply, voice was measured. He took another slow drag from his cigarette.

        “I’m exactly where I want to be.”

     Bill made a noise—something light, lilting, a bit teasing. “How sweet.”

—

     The world returned in layers—first sensation, then weight, then the slow, deliberate effort of movement.

     Flesh was strange. Heavy. Confining in a way that felt unnatural, as if it were trying to remind Bill of the boundaries of this borrowed body. He rolled Ford’s shoulders, felt the tension strung between the bones, the way the muscles resisted before yielding. He stretched Ford’s fingers one by one, flexed them, curled them into fists, then released. The knuckles cracked, sharp in the quiet. 

     Ford’s body was worn—he’d spent too many nights bent over a desk, hunched, but even so, it responded. He could feel it now—muscles that would bend for him, would let him in when the time came. In some sense, it was always like this—Ford’s body, heavy in its own skin, but soft and vulnerable under Bill’s hands. 

     He tipped Ford’s head from side to side, testing. The weight of it was satisfying. Ford’s neck wasn’t the only thing he felt the pull of—there was the sharp, muscular lines of his arms, the quiet strength of his frame—they held an allure, something not quite of the body but for it. Bill often found his thoughts straying to those moments, the raw, unsaid things that lived in their touch, their quiet heat.

     Bill could feel the tension run deeper, could sense the resistance, the discomfort in Ford’s own willingness to be claimed—as he had been time and again, but never fully. And wasn’t that something? Wasn’t that interesting? 

     There was more here. More in Ford’s life—more in this body, and Bill wanted it. Needed it.

     Curiosity burned deeper than it ever had before. There were pieces of Ford that laid scattered—fragments, parts tucked away in corners, just out of reach. Ford kept them hidden—the things he didn’t want to show, the parts of him Bill hadn’t yet touched. The dreams held whispers of it—in sweat-slick skin, lips pulling in pleasure, with eyes that asked for something more, but never admitted it. 

     But life had a way, Bill had come to find, of leaving traces—ruins that could paint a clearer picture of what had been left behind. So, while Ford slept, Bill was at the helm—he explored.

     Bill had been through the lab, through Ford’s desk, through every drawer and locked cabinet Ford thought he was so clever about. But Fidds’ space? That was new.

     He moved Ford’s body through the house, bare feet brushing the floorboards, his movements less restrained now that they were alone. The door to Fidds’ room was unlocked—of course it was. Why wouldn’t it be?

     Inside, the room smelled faintly of dust and old paper, layered with something warmer—wood, whiskey, a trace of engine grease. Lived-in but not homey, the way men like them tended to keep things.

     Bill rifled through the dresser first, forcing Ford’s hands to move through stacks of clothes, occasionally brushing against the odd pocketful of loose screws. The nightstand wasn’t much better—half-empty cups of water, a few folded notes. Bill unfolded one, skimming the contents. The handwriting wasn’t Fidds’—and there, along the bottom, were several faded pink lip prints. The paper was old, crinkled at the edges. Bill tossed it aside.

     He moved on, fingers brushing along the desk, scattering a few notebooks just to see what lay beneath. Schematics. Numbers. Diagrams, scrawled over loose pages. Boring. He shoved them aside and opened the top drawer.

     A battered deck of cards. Bill flicked open the top, letting the cards spill into Ford’s hand. The edges were soft from wear, but the stack was thinner than it should have been. Bill fanned them out, shuffling through them lazily: only 9s, 10s, and the lettered ones. Useless. He shoved the cards back in the box and tossed them aside. 

     He reached towards the back of the drawer and Ford’s fingers hit something cool, metal. A flask. Bill popped the lid open letting the sharp fragrance of whiskey waft over him. He took a swig, gagging lightly at the burn—then took another before closing it and setting it back where it was.

     What else, what else…a pack of gum with only two sticks left. Then—what was this? A switchblade. Bill flipped it open with a flick of Ford’s wrist, testing the blade against the pad of Ford’s thumb. The body barely reacted to the shallow press. The blade was dull anyway. Disappointing.

        Finally, his gaze fell on the closet.

     The door creaked softly as he pulled it open. Inside, a row of shirts hung unevenly, some pressed together, others spaced apart like they’d been tugged on in haste. A few pairs of shoes sat scattered along the floor—scuffed boots, well-worn sneakers, something that might’ve once been dress shoes but had seen better days. In the corner, a long, narrow case leaned against the wall—Fidds’ gun, no doubt. But Bill’s attention snagged on something else.

     His borrowed fingers brushed against a box on the top shelf, its edges softened with age, the cardboard slightly warped. VHS was written across the front.

     Bill grinned—he’d seen these before. He pulled it down and set it on the floor, pushing Ford’s hands into the it, sifting through the stacks. The labels were neat, written on sticky notes.

            Home Movies. Too sentimental—Pass.

        Horror. Not bad…Maybe?

     Honeymoon? The moon was many things, but honey wasn’t one of them—forget it.

        Then—his hand stilled.

     Near the bottom, another label. Half-peeled at the corner, curling slightly.

        Christmas.

     “’Tis the season,” Bill murmured, amused, peeling the sticky note away with deliberate slowness.

     His fingers drifted through the tapes, pushing them aside, skimming the titles.

        Then—one caught his attention.

     The cover was different. Not some home recording, not a garish holiday special. It was a real production, glossy, with dramatic lighting. A man stood on the front, his body taut, arms stretched at his sides in a precise pose. The title curled above him in elegant script:

        Baryshnikov: The Nutcracker.

     Bill tilted Ford’s head, intrigued.

     He didn’t know what this was. Not really. But there was something about the way the man stood—poised, perfect, his body a study in control—that caught Bill’s attention. The way the muscles in his legs and arms defined themselves beneath the very tight fabric. Deliberate. Precise. 

           Bill’s grin sharpened.

        “Well, well.” 

     He turned the tape over in Ford’s hands, running his fingers over the plastic case. The back was filled with little printed images—dancers mid-motion, bodies suspended in impossible shapes. A synopsis, a list of credits, none of which meant much to him. The words blurred, insignificant next to the pictures.

        But something about it pulled at him.

     A performance. A display. A human body moving with purpose and control, and discipline—more than mere flesh.

     This was control without restraint. Power without resistance. A body yielding, but not in weakness—in mastery.

           And that was what caught him.

        Because Ford’s body wasn’t like that.

     Ford’s body—that was rigid. All strict, efficient movements, measured steps. Tension locked in his shoulders, restraint wired into his muscles. He moved like a man who had spent his whole life making sure he never miscalculated, never overreached, never let himself falter—carrying his body as if something terrible might happen if he misstepped.

     Even in moments of surrender, even when Bill had pulled him apart and coaxed pleasure from every nerve, he never fully let go—there was always something held back, something clenched in his jaw, something braced in his spine.

     Even at his most undone, he was never fully free.

     He always talked about diligence. Discipline. He lived by it. But Bill had never seen Ford’s body express that control like this.

        No, this—This was something else entirely. 

           He wanted to see. 

     He padded down the hall and made his way into the living room. There, against the center of the wall, sat an old VHS player, nestled beneath the television—He’d watched Ford do this before—the routine, the ritual. He slid the tape out of the box, the reel uneven on either end, thicker on the right side.

     He crouched, shoving the tape into the slot. The machine whirred to life, clicking as the tape was swallowed into its depths. He turned the dial on the TV—just as he remembered seeing Ford do. 

        The tape whirred, and the picture steadied.

     Bill sat close to the screen, Ford’s body held still, knees drawn up, fingers curled loosely against his ankles. The blue glow flickers over his skin as the stage unfolded across the screen.

     Soft light bloomed, illuminating an expanse of painted backgrounds. He reached for the dial, twisting it carefully, and the sound that followed was a series of delicate notes, slow and reverent—A sound like wanting.

     Bill’s breath was even, but something inside wasn't. A tightness in the ribs, something thin and stretched—He didn’t know why.

     The stage is vast, glowing, its warmth bleeding into the dimness of the recording. And there—her. The woman in white. She made delicate gestures, so careful, so precise, it seems impossible that she is real. She extends a hand. And then—him. The man from the cover.

     He steps forward—moving like he is separate from the world entirely, like gravity is something that only concerns others. His hands are gentle but deliberate, and when he reaches for her, she moves into him with certainty.

     The music lifts. It presses against Ford’s skin, beneath his ribs. Expands into the spaces between—between breath and bone, between this room and somewhere further, vaster, something without walls. It fills them, pushes into them, restless and endless—A sound like knowing.

           She reaches for him.

        And he takes her hand.

     Not like a claim, but gently—A meeting, one movement. She lifts onto the very edges of her feet, and he pulls her forward, just enough, just barely.

           The strings ascend—

        And she rises.

     Weightless, unbound, as if the music itself is pulling her up. As if she is not of this place at all.

     Something inside Bill shifted with them. A pressure, an ache behind Ford’s sternum, a heat pooling somewhere deep in the spine. It is not a thought, not a word, but something else.

     She leans into him, drapes herself across his arms. A body surrendered, but not in defeat. He moves with purpose, and she with trust.

     The figures on the screen turned, caught in each other’s gravity—Wasn’t that what this was?

     A body moving, knowing it would be caught. Hands reaching, knowing they would be met.

     Bill had known that. Had felt that. Had let himself be lifted, weightless in another’s grasp, drawn forward by something beyond them—something that neither of them could name.

     The music changed—rising like a wave. It moved in time with them, or perhaps it was them moving to meet it. It filled the room with an energy he couldn’t quite place—it was bold and exhilarating, yes, but also held a kind of ache, a sort of sorrow—that stirred something in him.

     The music swells, again. It presses into him, filling the empty spaces, expanding in the hollows. He can feel Ford’s body responding before he understands why—the faintest tremor in his fingers, a pull at something in the breath, in the pulse—there. A longing, an anguish. Something vast and unspeakable, drawn up and wrung out of them, spilling across their surface. 

        She folds against his chest.

     And Ford’s hands—their hands—curl inward, pressing into their palms, holding onto something unseen.

     The way he moves her. The way his hands trace her, firm, assured, each motion deliberate. The way she gives herself to him, the way he bears it—it is a kind of triumph, but not of conquest.

     There was something about the way he looked at her—A quiet intensity, a reverence, something fragile, something cherished. The way his eyes burned—it was familiar.

     Bill could feel it. In the chest, in the throat. It ached. He knew that look. He knew that feeling.

           He’d seen it before.

        On Ford.

     On Ford, looking at him.

     It should be a claim, but it isn’t. It is something softer. She gives, and he takes only what she offers. He catches her, never demands. It is a meeting, not an expectation. And Bill knows this, too. Not in words. Not in sound. But in motion.

     He understood movement. The weight of a hand, the shift of muscle, the way touch speaks by tension’s release.

        And Ford’s touch—spoke to him.

     In the way he presses forward, the way he pulls. The way his grip falters, caught between wanting and restraint. How his fingers tremble when they hold too hard, how they soften—afraid to take too much.

     Even in surrender, even in pleasure, even in the moments where his breath is shaking, where his body gives itself over—there is always that hesitation. That measuring. That something.

     A flicker of memory—hands, tracing over him with curiosity. I need to understand, that touch said. Let me know you.

     There was a burst of strings, a note drawn long and low, delicate as thread. Bill startles—not outwardly, not in a way that the body betrays, but inwardly, somewhere deeper. The sound does not enter through their ears alone—what was it reaching?

     Bill couldn’t help it—they stood, eyes never leaving the figures. There was a tug inside them, a strange, frustrated pull. What was it? What made these movements seem so certain?

        He wasn’t made for this.

     And Ford, with his restraint, with his hesitation—

           But together—together, maybe.

        Their fingers twitch.

     The body follows.

     Testing the pull of their limbs, the space between the music and this body, the air between the motion and the understanding of it. He bends Ford’s legs, arms curling into an arc above their head, then slowly, steadily, a curve in the spine, dipping to the side.

     Bill lets the breath sit in their lungs, holds it there, feeling the shape of it, the weight. The music swells once more, fingers lower, barely grazing the air before settling. They move, through the dark—step of two.

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