It's Only Natural

Ford woke up early, as he usually did. He was always late to bed and early to rise. Four to six hours of sleep was plenty, any more would be an indulgence. There were always so many more productive things to do than sleep, like looking for ways to help his companion out of his funk.

Fiddleford hadn’t been himself since the gremloblin attack. He was jumpy and skittish, more so than he ever was before. Ford had mixed up the Rubik’s cube his friend kept on his desk days ago. Fiddleford never left it unsolved whenever he caught it scrambled. He’d solve it in a matter of seconds, no matter what Ford attempted. The fact Fiddleford had left it unsolved for so long was certainly a poor sign. 

Meditation hadn’t helped. Something startled Fidds in the process, whatever nightmare was haunting him. He had a minor breakdown. Ford had no idea what he was doing. He was trying his best to be supportive, but it hurt. It hurt seeing someone he cared so deeply for so frightened and in pain, and feeling powerless to take that pain away.

A couple of days ago, Fiddleford had come to him with an especially worrying invention. A memory gun, something to erase whatever horrifying vision had fried his nerves. The machine was a nightmare of its own. It was horribly unsafe. The design was a far cry from Fiddleford’s best work. He was usually so thoughtful and secure with his designs. He was slipping. Ford hated to imagine what kind of damage Fidds could have done to himself if he’d actually tried using the damn thing. Thankfully, Ford was able to talk some sense to him, and Fiddleford disposed of the gun. 

Nonetheless, it was a sign that Ford needed to keep trying. He needed to find something healthy that worked before Fiddleford resorted to something drastic. 

“Rise and shine, bud. Time for our morning workout.” Ford smiled wide as he flicked on the lights in Fiddleford’s bedroom.

Fidds hissed and pulled his pillow over his head. “I finally got some sleep….” His protests were muffled under the pillow.

“Oh, that’s great!” Good to hear Fidds was finally sleeping again. “Then you should be rested enough for some stretches and a light jog.”

Fidds peered at Ford from under his pillow. His upturned nose poked out of the covers like a little pig snout. “Since when has it been our morning workout?” he asked wryly. 

“Since today.” Ford rested one hand on his hip while he counted his reasons on his other hand. “I think it’d do you some good. A morning jog always helps clear my head,” he proposed, holding up a finger. “I think it would be fun to work out together.” Two fingers. “And besides, you’re out of shape anyway.” Three fingers turned to one as he pointed down at his friend with a mocking click of his tongue and a faux look of shame on his face. “Too many years away from the farm, I reckon.” He twanged playfully.

“Aw, now yer just makin’ fun o’ me!” Fidds propped himself up on his arms. The pillow slid off his messy bedhead in the process.

“Who me? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ford batted his lashes and held a hand over his heart.

A pillow went flying across the room. Ford dodged it easily with an ear-to-ear grin. Fiesty. That was a good sign.

Fidds groaned and pulled himself upright. “Uhg… yer not gonna let up till I agree, are ya?”

Ford gave the question some serious consideration, only fully registering the sarcasm after he gave his answer. “Probably not, no,” he told him honestly. 

Fidds rubbed his eyes and dragged his face down with his hands. He looked back at Ford like he was melting from his fingertips. He stared at him like he was waiting for something.

Ford only stood there waiting to see what Fidds needed.

“Well, git!” Fidds pointed to the door. “Least let me shower, shit, and shave. Danm.” 

Ford chuckled and raised his hands in surrender. “Right, sorry. Put something comfy on and meet me in the living room.”

Fidds sighed and rolled his eyes. A soft smile tugged at his lips. Ford liked that smile. That mix of affection and exasperation. There was security in that smile.

When Fiddleford did meet him down in the living room, it was clear he hadn’t fully grasped the assignment. He walked past Ford, who was sitting on the floor, to go make coffee in the kitchen.

“Hey, over here!” Ford protested as he was ignored. 

“It’s six in the mornin’, coffee first!” Fiddleford called back.

“Coffee when we’re done. Put the pot on and come over here.” He cocked a knee and leaned against it while he waited for Fidds. Wearing his workout shorts and a light black t-shirt. He already had his jogging shoes on. They were in better shape than his usual work boots since they were only used for these morning runs on well-worn trails. 

Fidds, on the other hand, came back in a sweaty wifebeater and boxers with little red hearts.

“I told you to get dressed,” Ford scolded.

“I ain’t naked.” Fidds rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“You're not going jogging in your underwear, are you?” 

“Yeah, that ain't happenin’.” Fidds sat down on the living room carpet next to Ford. “I'll meet ya halfway, but I ain't going for a run in a forest full o’ weird monsters before sun up.” 

“The only anomalous creature you're likely to spot on my route is a gnome or two. They're harmless.” Ford dismissed with a hand wave.

“It ain't happenin’.” 

“Alright, that’s fine. We'll work up to it. For now, let's just start with a light warmup.” Ford offered.

Fidds sighed but conceded. The exercises weren't anything too difficult. Ford wasn't having Fiddleford lift weights, and the jog had already been shot down. Even then, Fidds was struggling by the second set. He was far less flexible than Ford expected for someone so thin. Ford often found himself assisting, holding Fiddleford's body in various positions while he wheezed from the strain. Red-faced and sweaty and huffing.

“Breathe, Fidds.” Ford kept warning him. “You're going to pass out like that.” 

Ford decided to wrap up their session with a sixty-second plank. A simple exercise. He just had to hold the position for a minute. It couldn't be easier.

“Back straight, Fidds.” Ford lifted himself up onto his fingers while Fiddleford was bracing himself on his forearms. Ford was outstretched parallel to his friend, observing his form.

“I am straight dammit!” Fiddleford huffed. His face turned red as beads of sweat dripped from his nose. He was, in fact, not straight. His rear raised slightly above where it should have been. Bending his body at an off angle.

Ford broke his plank and sat up to help him. “No, your ass is up.” He corrected gently. Despite Fidds' repeated bluster and frustration, Ford had remained patient with him. While he could no longer relate to the struggle, he still remembered how it felt when he started working out. That weak, impotent feeling, sweaty and winded and ashamed of himself.

He placed one hand on Fiddleford's stomach and another on his lower back. Slowly lowering his but till his body was a straight line from his shoulders to his toes. “There, now you're straight.”

A couple of seconds passed, and Ford realized Fiddleford had stopped breathing. His cheeks puffed up, and his eyes widened as he turned redder and redder. 

“Breathe, Fidds!” Ford patted his back.

Fiddleford gasped as he freed the breath he was holding and struggled to suck in more air. “Please… tell me… we're done-” he wheezed.

Ford checked his watch and observed the second hand as it ticked by. “Almost. Halfway there. Just keep it up a little longer.” He rubbed little assuring circles into Fidds lower back with his other hand while he counted the seconds, holding his form.

Eventually, the minute passed, and with the final tick, “Now, now you can stop.” 

Fiddleford gasped and collapsed into a sweaty, heaving heap on the floor. “Thank… the… lord… Stanferd… I… Hate… You!”

Ford looked at his friend and blinked briefly before realizing that Fidds was being facetious. He broke out laughing and patted Fidds' back. “Aw, come on, buddy. It couldn’t have been that bad. You did well.”

“Hogwash!” Fiddleford spat. Too tired to pull his face off the floor. He only turned his head with his cheek mushed into the carpet as he shot daggers at his friend. “Yer a shit liar Stanford. Don’t even try.”

“Alright, alright,” Ford apologized. “Look, there may be some room for improvement-” 

“May be?!” Fidds bocked.

“I’ll go easier on you next time,” Ford promised. 

Fiddleford buried his face in the carpet and groaned. “There’s gonna be a next time, huh?”