#owooga

“Fid,” Ford said, his voice rough, frayed at the edges. He hadn’t spoken much in days, except in clipped, disjointed fragments. He stared straight ahead, though he could feel Fidds watching him out of the corner of his eye. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” Fidds said, keeping his focus on the road. His tone was light, easy, but Ford knew him well enough to hear the tension buried underneath.

Ford let his head fall back against the window with a dull thud, the cool glass pressing into the side of his skull. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, but he couldn’t relax. His body wouldn’t let him, the dull hum of his anxiety winding tighter with every second. He exhaled, the sound louder than he meant it to be. “I don’t wanna see anyone else today.”

“You won’t,” Fidds said, and when Ford cracked an eye open to glance at him, he saw the quick flash of a grin, as if Fidds could make everything better just by pretending it already was. “Just trust me.”

Ford didn’t say anything, just leaned back, trying to force himself to believe it—to believe that whatever Fidds had planned wouldn’t end with an increased level of regret for agreeing to leave the house in the first place. The silence stretched again, but it wasn’t comforting. It felt loaded. He turned his gaze back to the window, watching as the landscape shifted outside: the trees grew denser, darker, their branches spreading like fingers over the road, the light filtering through the leaves in soft, golden streams.

The sun was beginning its slow descent, throwing hues of pink and orange across the sky. But it didn’t soothe him. Ford couldn’t shake the feeling that they were moving toward something he wasn’t ready for, something that would ask more of him than he had left to give.

Fidds was talking again, but Ford barely registered the words, letting them pass over him like a gentle breeze, something light, harmless. His mind was elsewhere—still down in the lab, still drowning in work that wouldn’t fix anything, but at least kept him from thinking too much. He wasn’t in the mood for any more surprises.

When they finally pulled up, the road petering out into gravel and then into nothing at all, the view spread out before them—an endless valley stretching out beneath the cliff, the town below reduced to a scattering of indistinct shapes. From up here, the world seemed to fold in on itself, the edges blurring in the soft, golden light of the setting sun. Like something out of a painting. Fidds killed the engine, letting the car settle into silence, its vibrations dissipating into the quiet. The two of them sat there for a moment, neither moving, Fidds leaning back with his arms crossed over his chest, Ford still hunched forward slightly, his legs tense.

“This is it,” Fidds said, more to break the silence than anything, his voice soft but steady.

Ford looked over at him, unsure what to say, unsure if he even had the energy to ask again why they were here. He just nodded, the motion stiff, before sliding out of the car. He felt the shift in temperature immediately—the breeze up here was cooler, cleaner, washing away the last of the day’s warmth. Fidds followed suit, moving more casually, as though they were just on another routine errand. He climbed up onto the hood of the car, tapping the metal with his hand, asking for Ford to join him.

Ford hesitated for a moment before stepping up, the car’s metal warm beneath him, and sat next to Fidds. The two of them looked out over the expanse of land together, the valley below small and fragile, like something Ford could fold into his palm. He rested his elbows on his knees, rubbing his bruising knuckles across his palm while he took it all in.

Fidds settled back, leaning into the windshield, his posture loose, as if they were just two guys enjoying the sunset. But Ford could feel the weight of what went unspoken between them, that tension sitting between them. It had been there for a while now, in the spaces between words, silences that stretched too long. Ford kept things close, Fidds knew that—He always had. So, he didn’t press. He sat back, let the scenery speak for him.

“Fid,” Ford muttered, his voice quieter now, as if speaking any louder might break the fragile stillness around them. He stared out at the horizon, the pink and gold of the sunset bleeding across the sky, stretching farther, higher, pulling the day toward its end. “Why are we here?”

For a moment, Fidds didn’t respond. He sat up and leaned forward, reaching into Ford’s coat pocket, and with an easy motion, he pulled out Ford’s pack of cigarettes, shaking one loose without asking. “I come here sometimes when I need to blow off steam,” Fidds said, his tone casual, slipping one cigarette between his lips. He then held the pack out to Ford, who took it without a word. “It’s quiet,” Fidds continued, “gives me space to think.”

Ford didn’t respond at first, just rolled the cigarette between his fingers, watching the way the fading light cast long shadows across the valley below. The silence between them felt thick, but not uncomfortable—but the kind that had been years in the making. He brought the cigarette to his mouth, and Fidds sparked his lighter, first lighting his own with a slow drag, then holding the flame out for Ford. They resumed their positions on the hood of the car, Fidds’ legs stretched out in front of him and Ford sitting closer to the edge, his feet resting on the front bumper, the cigarettes burning between their fingers.

Neither of them spoke as they took long, steady drags, the smoke curling up into the air, disappearing before it could fully settle. The breeze was soft here, cool against their skin, and as Ford exhaled, he felt something loosen, if only for a moment. But it—the weight he carried—remained just beneath the surface, unspoken. Ford enjoyed it for what it was. For the first time today, he felt somewhat at ease. It was almost peaceful.

Fidds let out a long exhale, his eyes squinting slightly as the smoke curled up into the air. “You remember that winter break, in undergrad?” He asked, his question cutting through the chill in the air. Ford didn’t respond right away, just shifted, his gaze still lingering on the sunset. “You didn’t wanna go home,” Fidds continued, “Dorms had to be fumigated, and you didn’t have anywhere to go. I remember… I thought it was strange at the time. Like… we’d been roommates for years, and I never really asked why you never went back for the holidays.” Ford looked back at the ground for a moment, taking another puff and the memories came clearer to him.

“So when the dorms were closing,” Fid continued, “I thought, ‘Why not just bring you to Tennessee?’ I called up my folks, told them you were coming, and Mom went all out. She even learned how to make those latkes for you.” Fidds chuckled, a warmth spreading across his face at the memory.

Ford couldn’t help but smile, too, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. “Those were so good,” he said, resting back a bit on the car.

“They were.” Fidds agreed. “She made a huge batch, didn’t she? Way more than I thought we could’ve eaten. Of course she did. And you did eat them, every single one.” he said with a laugh. The smile on Ford’s lips grew at the sound. “My little brother, though…” Fidds went on, chuckling and leaning forward. “He was what—eight? Didn’t get it at all. He was like, ‘Why’s Ford here, how’s Santa gonna get him his gifts?’ All serious, like you were some kind of secret operative.” Ford huffed a laugh at the story, puffing methodically as he listened to Fidds recall it. He remembered the details, of course, but it was nice hearing it. “And then when you tried to explain, but he just kept pushing. You should’ve seen your face when you were this close to blowing the whole Santa thing wide open.”

A stronger laugh escaped Ford’s lips, genuine and warm, like the last rays of sun shining over the mountainside. “I never expected to have that conversation ever in my life. I didn’t know what to say,” he said, shaking his head. “Would’ve ruined the whole shebang.” There was a spark of amusement in his eyes.

They settled into a comfortable silence, the laughter hanging in the air like a sweet aftertaste. The warmth enveloped them as they sat on the car hood, the gentle breeze whispering through the trees and the distant sounds of the mountains—a chorus of rustling leaves and the soft murmur of wind.

Fidds’ grin faded slightly, morphing into a softer expression as he leaned back again. “You know, I think a lot about that trip.” He said, tilting his head slightly. “It’s when I first started really piecing things together. About you.”

Ford’s smile faltered a bit, his gaze back on the sunset, nearly finished now.

“I didn’t really pay attention before. The way you always left the lamp on in the dorm—I thought you were just up late reading, y’know? Never crossed my mind there was anything more to it.” Fidds flicked the ash from his cigarette, his voice quiet, softened by memory. “But at my place, you did it again… every night. There weren’t any tests to study for, any projects to finish. It was just us. It clicked for me.” Fidds paused, letting a few moments slip by, like he was weighing his words. “And even then, it took me another couple years still to finally figure out why.” he said. “I figure it’s the same reason you keep everything wrapped up.”

Ford sat still, his gaze fixed somewhere off in the distance, but his shoulders had stiffened, and his fingers toyed absently with the fabric at the edge of his coat sleeve. He closed his eyes briefly, just a second, then let out a measured breath. He didn’t meet Fidds’ gaze but held himself there, listening, like he was bracing himself.

“But once I saw it—I couldn’t stop seeing it.” Fidds’ continued, his voice a shade softer now, almost tentative, breaking through his usual steadiness.

Ford’s jaw tightened, just a fraction. It felt like being unwrapped, a slow unspooling of things he kept bound up tight. He shifted his weight, leaning just slightly against the car hood, as if its solidity could keep him from unmooring.

“It took me years to realize it,” Fidds went on, his voice a low murmur, like he was pulling together threads of his own thoughts, letting the words settle. “But it’s like… once you notice someone carrying something, the way you do…” He hesitated, thumb rubbing over the worn filter of his cigarette. “You were always so good at hiding it, Ford. I thought you were just—invincible back then, y’know? Like nothing could reach you.”

Ford gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, his gaze shifting down to the gravel beneath his feet. He pressed his lips together, feeling the familiar tension of things unsaid tightening in his throat. The words hung there, filling the air between them, but he couldn’t look up, couldn’t meet the unguarded understanding in Fidds’ eyes.

“But now…” Fidds said, turning to look fully at him, his voice dropping to something steadier, clearer, “I just see that kid. Still afraid of the dark. Always folding in on yourself, like you can’t let anyone see. You carry it all, like if you let even a little slip, the whole thing’s gonna come down.”

Ford’s shoulders dipped, his fingers finally going still as if, just for a moment, he might let himself feel the weight he carried—letting it settle in, solid and undeniable. The tension had loosened between them, the silence thick and grounding, but strangely easier, like they’d landed on a shared truth they both recognized. They sat there, on the edge, but they were doing it together. And in that stillness, Ford felt the faintest warmth, something almost like gratitude, pooling into that hollow place he’d been desperate to fill. It was simple, unforced. Just them. And, for now, that was enough. The weight didn’t feel like a burden.

“Ford?” Fidds’ voice broke in, low and steady, pulling him back. Ford glanced over, their gazes finally meeting.

Fid studied him for a moment, a soft, crooked smile playing at the edge of his mouth, eyes gentler than Ford could remember them. “You don’t have to carry it alone,” he said, his voice almost a murmur, like a confession. He paused, swallowing as if weighing the words. “I don’t care if—” A faint, shaky breath escaped him. “It wouldn’t make a difference. If you left the light on.”

Ford felt his lip tremble, and he quickly looked away, swallowing hard as he took a nervous drag from his cigarette. He clenched his jaw, his leg bouncing again, but the words wouldn’t come. Fidds was onto him—had been for a while now. There was a sense of inevitability in the air, a moment where honesty would either surface or slip away. Ford wouldn’t be able to give him the whole truth. How could he? Where would he even begin? The truth was so knotted and complicated and unbelievable. And with Bill gone now, it’s not like he could show him.

But maybe the details didn’t matter. Not really. Fidds had a hunch, like he always did, an instinct that was maddeningly close. Ford knew he wasn’t asking for a revelation—just confirmation that he’d seen the cracks. “Do I… have to say it out loud?” Ford’s voice was almost a whisper, and even then it trembled around the lump in his throat.

Fidds didn’t press further. Instead, he let the silence settle, then shifted, sliding his arm around Ford’s shoulder, pulling him in with a gentle but sure grip. “No,” he murmured, simple and steady, his fingers pressing firm against Ford’s shoulder as though he could will away the tension still knotted there.

Ford let out a shaky breath, feeling something he hadn’t expected—a quiet, almost startling relief. They’d been down this road before, too many times to count, but every time, the sense of release caught him off guard, settling warm over him against a winter chill.

“Thanks for agreeing to join the project,” Ford managed, blinking away the sting that lingered in his eyes. His voice was softer now, stripped of its usual edge. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Fidds didn’t respond right away. He gave Ford’s shoulder a steady squeeze, a wordless acknowledgment. “I’m glad you asked,” he said at last, his voice quiet but certain. He held Ford’s shoulder a moment longer, as if wanting to say more, before letting go and hopping off the hood of the car, landing with a soft thud on the gravel below.

He took a few steps forward, hands in his pockets, then looked back over his shoulder. “Come to the edge with me.”

Ford hesitated, glancing out over the horizon before finally flicking his cigarette to the ground and stepping down from the hood. His boots crunched on the gravel as he moved toward the cliff’s edge, each step deliberate, almost reluctant. Fidds waited a few paces ahead, hands still shoved in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the valley stretched out far below them.

Something about the quiet here, the view that seemed to stretch on forever—it was peaceful, sure, but it brought with it a weight he could feel settling into his chest. The day had left him raw. The silence around him felt strange, almost unnatural. He’d spent so long wrapped up in the endless pull of work, the constant thoughts of Bill still present in his mind, that moments like these seemed strange now, as if he didn’t belong in the quiet.

Bill’s absence had been so loud today, despite everything—or in spite of it.There was something about all that had happened, like it was all intentional somehow. Meant to torment him. He felt the press of everything he’d held back—the weeks of empty, sleepless nights, the way he’d poured himself into his work just to avoid facing that void head-on. How things went at Reggie’s, the fight, and now here, at the edge of the mountain; he was face-to-face with it, the weight of it all.

Ford’s thoughts shattered as Fidds inhaled, sharp and sudden, then released a loud, open-throated yell into the vast, empty air. The sound cut through the quiet, jolting Ford back into the present. He looked over, bewildered, watching the echo roll out across the valley until it faded into nothing. “What the fuck was that for?”

Fidds turned to him with a grin, unbothered by Ford’s confusion. He clapped a hand on Ford’s shoulder, still chuckling a bit. “I do that a lot when I’m up here, too,” he said. “It’s cathartic, just letting it all out like that. Letting go. Feel like you can finally breathe after.”

Ford let out a small, skeptical laugh, shaking his head as he avoided Fidds’ gaze. “I don’t know, Fid…”

“Oh, c’mon, big guy,” Fidds teased, stepping back just a bit, giving Ford space and that steady, insistent grin that somehow made it all seem possible. “Do it. Let it go.”

Let it go. Three simple words, thrown out like a rope, like the answer to everything, something you could just set down and leave behind. It sounded so easy, like he could just look out into the endless stretch of sky and valley, breathe deep, and shed all the weight he’d been dragging. Like it was something that could be done by choice. He glanced over the edge, the sharp drop that seemed to go on forever. For a second, he imagined what it would feel like if he really could let it all go, if he could just let the air take it, that ache that had settled deep into his bones. But everything lingered. He could feel the pull, every small tether that still held him there, that he couldn’t shake.

Because it wasn’t just about letting go of Bill, or the memories of him, or that restless, hollow ache that had followed Ford ever since the silence began. It was about the small things that brought Bill back in flashes, haunting his periphery. The little glimmers that had him whipping his head around, thinking he’d seen a flicker of gold in the corner of his eye or caught a flash of him in a crowd, thinking that maybe, just maybe, he’d hear Bill’s voice like he used to—smug, taunting.

But that hope—that wild, impossible hope—always settled back into him like lead. Almost a month had passed since he’d last heard Bill, and still the silence rang louder than he could bear, pressing into him harder each day. It was the stupidest, smallest things that got to him. A particular shade of blue he’d see in the sky, a ripple in the air that felt like his touch. Every one of those glints was a dagger, each one a reminder that, no matter how much he hoped, Bill wasn’t going to come back. That he’d been left with a hollow too deep to fill.

And every day, Ford lived through it again, the same realization, settling in like cold metal in his chest. Every day, he woke up a little more aware of how final it felt, and the glimmers of hope, those foolish sparks, grew less and less frequent. Fidds was right; maybe he needed to let go. Maybe he even wanted to. But wanting and doing were worlds apart, and that space between them—that cavern he couldn’t cross—felt like all he had left.

Maybe there was something to it. He watched Fidds, standing there loose-limbed, looking at him with that crooked, easy grin. Fidds always did seem to move through life like it was nothing more than water; even when the current got rough, he’d just flow along, somehow always keeping his head above the waves. Ford had spent more time than he’d admit envying that about him, the way things never seemed to stick to Fidds, the way he could let go as naturally as breathing. Maybe that’s why Ford thought, even if only for a second, that Fidds was on to something. If this was something he did to get by, it was worth a try. Fidds made everything look easier, anyway. Maybe it would feel silly—just some shout into the empty night—but maybe that was the point.

He chewed his lip, the taste of salt and smoke lingering on his tongue as he worked over the thought, rubbed his thumb absently over his knuckles, still clenched and rough beneath his fingers. He shifted, taking in a quiet breath, but it was sharp, thin. He couldn’t quite catch it, couldn’t bring himself to take it all the way, and before he knew it, he’d let the breath go again, without a sound, without release.

Let it go, he told himself, the words hollow, echoing back at him in the same stubborn silence that had followed him up here. He clenched his hands again, tighter this time, and tried to convince himself he meant it. Ford took in another deep inhale, letting the night settle in his lungs, steeling himself, like this time he could just force it all out. But as he held his breath, he almost felt it as it flashed in his memory, Bill’s fingertips tapping against his skin, that thoughtless, rhythmic drumming that he used to do when they laid together. It was small, insignificant. But the image came anyway.

He clenched his fists tighter, his knuckles whitening as he fought the impulse to hold on. Then he remembered, a shared glance across the lab, Bill’s amused smirk, the way he’d tip his head just slightly. Private, a look that no one else ever saw. Ford’s chest tightened, a flicker of heat spreading across his face as his breath remained caught behind his teeth. Ford’s fists began to shake. The edges of those details cut into him, refusing to stay contained—He remembered the way Bill chewed on the inside of his cheek when he was thinking.

Ford could feel his shoulders starting to tremble, his breath seeping out choppy and uneven. A few moments passed, flashes slipping through his defenses like cracks opening in ice. Bill’s laugh—low, quiet, meant just for him. And then a memory that stung, his voice, gentle, saying Ford’s name in that way that made it sound like it was his to keep. The world around him faded into those small, sharp details, everything receding as his vision blurred.

“Ford?” Fidds’ voice broke the haze, a soft tether pulling him back. Ford blinked, feeling the heat spilling down his face, and tried to shake it off.

But then the sobs came, raw and broken, something ripped from the deepest parts of him. His legs buckled, giving out beneath him, and Fidds reached for him instinctively, pulling him close, easing him down into the dirt. “Ford, hey—it’s okay,” Fidds whispered, his hand firm on his shoulder, holding onto him. “I’m sorry… It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Ford couldn’t stop, the grief spilling out in ragged breaths, his fingers gripping Fidds’ arm with the desperation he couldn’t hide anymore. Fidds’ hand stayed steady on his shoulder, and Ford could feel him breathing, matching the rise and fall, something steady in the chaos. He wanted to find a way to voice the ache in his chest, to share the agony, but all he could do was cling tighter, the words lost to the silence between shaken breaths.

And he knew then, that no matter how hard he tried—he couldn’t do it. This weight would remain, woven into him, unable to let it slip away.

—

As they entered the cabin, a silence stretched between them, loose but weighted, like something heavy draped over both of them. Fidds lingered by the doorway, one hand on the edge of his coat, watching Ford move quietly past, shoulders drawn in, gaze low. The car ride back had been thick with the kind of stillness that makes you aware of every breath, every shift in your seat, and Ford had barely looked up the entire way. Now, as he slipped down the narrow stairs toward the lab, his steps careful, almost practiced, he seemed to disappear into the shadows with an ease that struck Fidds in a way he couldn’t quite name.

Ford felt the familiar ache of exhaustion settle into him, wrapping itself into the places that had long grown used to bearing it. There was comfort in the lab’s narrow walls, in the sharp hum of equipment waiting to be used. He felt a pull to the tiny rituals he could rely on: the quiet stacks of books, the way his papers lay in their usual order, untouched. Here, he didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to feel. Just work. Just that.

Fidds watched him go, the sting of regret settling in, thick and sharp-edged. He’d thought maybe a night out would ease some of the strain, give Ford a breath of something lighter, but all it seemed to do was fray the edges of whatever Ford had been holding onto. His reaction suggested a far heavier burden he’d let on in that half-choked confession on the cliffside. Fidds’ attempts to help felt clumsy now, like he’d fumbled into something delicate without fully seeing it, and in doing so had only left Ford more exposed, making his want to further retract.

Back in the lab, Ford sank into his chair, forcing his mind to focus, to clear. His fingers were unsteady, but he pulled a stack of readings toward him, pages full of scribbled notes, equations, sketches of geometric symbols he hadn’t quite finished, patterns that he was sure held answers if he could only see it. He gripped a pen, leaning forward as he tried to trace the next connection, the next step—but everything blurred, the lines swimming.

He rubbed his eyes and forced himself to write, methodically, his pen cutting sharp strokes into the paper. He scrawled calculations, numbers that only half-cohered. He could feel sleep pulling at him, heavy and unrelenting, but he pressed harder, dug his fingers into the pen, determined not to give in. If he could just stay here, in the rhythm of the work, maybe he’d find it again—the energy, the sharpness. Just one more set of figures.

But his head kept dipping, his hand slipping in jagged lines across the page. He pushed through, breath shallow as he clung to the final threads of his work, but it was slipping, fading, until, finally—his head dropped forward with a hard thud.

The impact jolted him awake—he blinked, the feeling of confusion settling in. Something was off. The weight in his hand felt different. His eyes flicked to the right; a standard #2 pencil was in his hand. His heart stuttered in his chest.

“I’m out of number 2 pencils.” He said out loud.

He felt it—the presence he hadn’t felt in weeks, burning at the back of his neck. He turned, slowly, every muscle tensing, and there—straightening the creases and folds of his lab coat sleeves, right where he’d left him. Their eyes met, and he straightened, ready to work.

Bill.