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geniusboyy · 22 days ago

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Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 14

Mesa

The engine grumbled to life as Fidds turned the key, the sound rattling through the car like a low, anxious hum that settled in Ford’s chest. He slumped into the passenger seat, his body sinking into the worn upholstery, its sagging comfort easy to melt into. As they pulled out of the gravel driveway, the cabin, his refuge, shrank behind them, fading into the distance as rocks and dirt crunched beneath the tires. Ford’s gaze drifted out the window, focusing on how the daylight felt on his face through the glass, his mind slipping into a quiet reverie as the scenery blurred by.

The world outside morphed into a patchwork of muted November hues—the bare branches of trees reaching like skeletal fingers against the gray sky, patches of faded grass stubbornly holding on to the remaining vestiges of autumn. The landscape was stripped of life, suspended between seasons, like everything around him had stalled out. The colors bled together, the muted grays of the season creeping in, leaving only flashes of red barns or the distant silhouette of a hill. Ford watched as the landscape rolled past, each image a fleeting reminder of the transition of time—caught between the warmth of summer and the cold grip of winter, reminders of the world that moved on even when he didn’t.

Beside him, Fidds hummed softly with the cassette in the player—his usual rock tunes playing through the speakers. He bobbed his head lightly, tapping along on his steering wheel, a beat that blended into the background noise. Ford’s mind wandered with it, the rhythm carrying him deeper into his mind. He found himself lost in the rhythm of the passing scenery, the way the light seemed to filter through the clouds, casting a soft glow over everything. A space where he could lose himself in the monotony. There was a comfort in it, the kind that came from not having to think, not having to feel.

But he did think. He always did. It was like the harder he tried to push it all away, the deeper it sank into him. The smell of the heater running thick in the car, the faint scent of dust and oil—it pulled him back, reminding him of the lab. How he wanted to be there. The endless hours spent chasing data, never done, always another step. How it was fast, intense, and hard. How he could so easily lose track of time. But the noise—that constant grind—had quieted, and in its place, was the silence.

Ford pressed a hand hard against his thigh. He needed to go back. To the work, to the rush of it, the way it made him forget. It was all he had left. Bill was gone, and everything felt like a half-dream since then. He’d been starving in a way—of connection, of slowness, anything to fill the void left by Bill’s absence. And now, it was like the world was testing him, pulling at the edges of that emptiness. Fidds had pulled him out here, away from the safety of his lab, and Ford felt the stilts he’d built to stand on start to splinter.

He could still hear it, the way Bill’s laughter cut through him. That look in his eye that could just level him. Ford’s chest tightened. That was what had hooked him—that feeling of being understood, the way Bill could get inside his head and twist it all up until Ford didn’t know where he ended and Bill began. Now, all that was left was this hole that nothing could fill.

He turned his head slightly, glancing at Fidds, who was still tapping along to the music, unaware of the storm raging quietly next to him. Ford was grateful for the noise, that Fidds liked the music loud. It kept him from asking questions, from noticing the way Ford’s hands were trembling slightly in his lap. He didn’t want to talk. He couldn’t. He was too wrapped in the sharp ache of longing and grief. The need to truly know him. But now, he was filled with the reality, the acceptance, that he never would. Still, he dwelled. He couldn’t help it.

Their first stop was at a guy named Reggie’s; someone Fid had heard about through a mutual acquaintance, who knew him through another friend, and was now who he’d buy weed from. Ford didn’t know much about him other than that Fiddleford came out here about once a week, said he had a lot of good bud and was a bit “eccentric.” Ford wasn’t surprised by that—eccentric seemed to be the type of person that gravitated to Fidds.

They pulled into the driveway and Ford was immediately struck by the number of cars in the driveway, more than he expected. He took a breath, appreciatively exiting the car as unease coiled in his gut. Ford walked behind Fidds as they approached the door, his hands shoved into his pockets. The yard was cluttered with little things—twinkling ornaments strung up in the trees, wind chimes swaying gently in the breeze, small signs and figures tucked into the landscaping. Ford’s attention settled on the door, a low hum of music seeping out from behind it. What are you getting me into now, Fid?

“I swear, every stoner in America is no more than three degrees separated from each other,” Ford mused, breaking the silence as they reached the door. The remark came casually, making conversation on their way up the steps, a way to settle the anticipation building in his chest.

Fidds chuckled, shaking his head. “Yeah, it’s like a big ass, never-ending game of who’s who.” His voice had that easy, relaxed drawl. Ford had always envied that about him—how Fidds could walk into any room, any situation, and seem completely unfazed. Nothing stuck to him for long. Ford wished he could be like that, wished he didn’t carry everything around with him. Fidds knocked on the door, and it swung open.

The smell hit him first—incense and marijuana, thick and sweet, swirling around them. Then, the music followed, the hum of a record spinning in the next room, the sound wafting out with the haze. The man standing in the doorway didn’t immediately speak, but his presence was as intense as the energy that came from the house, tugging on Ford’s curiosity.

This must be Reggie. He stood there, framed by the light inside, leaning casually against the doorframe, almost posing. He was smaller than Ford expected, thinner. His posture was relaxed, but there was a tension in his eyes, something sharp and calculating behind them. His clothes hung loosely over his frame, draped in silky layers of embroidered flourishes that made him seem both casual and deliberate, everything carefully curated. The jewelry around his neck and fingers caught the light, glinting as he glanced between the two of them, sizing them up.

There was a brief moment of silence, his eyes settling on Fidds first. Then, a slow, tight smirk tugged at Reggie’s lips, playful and knowing, as if he already had them figured out.

“Don’t tell me…” Reggie’s voice came out smooth, an amused tenor that slid past his lips. “Is this him?”

Ford stood there behind Fidds, feeling strangely exposed under Reggie’s gaze as it shifted to him. Fiddleford chuckled, though there was a slight edge to it now, a hint of nervousness creeping into his voice, as if Reggie had already spilled some secret he wasn’t meant to share. “Yeah, this is him.”

Reggie’s smile widened, revealing a gap-toothed grin. It was disarming and genuine. His eyes lingered on Ford, a moment longer, taking his time, and Ford felt a flicker of self-consciousness under the scrutiny. “My, my, Stanford Pines,” Reggie mused, the words rolling off his tongue with an air of reverence. “I’ve heard so much about you. Please, come in.” He gestured grandly, stepping aside with effortless grace, his movements smooth and confident. Ford hesitated for a split second, a sense of unease washing over him. But he followed Fidds through the threshold. The warmth of the space wrapped around him as he stepped inside, drawing him in.

The house was a patchwork of colors and textures—tapestries and textiles draped over the walls, casting the room in soft, muted hues. Every surface was cluttered with trinkets and oddities, small curiosities that seemed carefully curated, though haphazard in their arrangement. Shelves overflowed with mismatched objects, some gleaming, others dusty with age. The floor was covered in overlapping rugs of all kinds—plush, worn, patterned, solid—each one seeming to tell a different story underfoot. It reminded him of home; not the cabin, but home , home. The one back in Jersey. But he quickly tucked that burst of nostalgia back into the recesses of his mind. He already had enough to think about.

The first thing Ford noticed was the absence of a couch. Instead, a large glass table sat low to the floor, surrounded by oversized cushions that looked as though they had borne the weight of a thousand conversations, the fabric worn soft and frayed in places. The cushions were slouched in a way that suggested hours of use, sagging into themselves like they were resigned to the inevitability of hosting more people, more silences. Ford hesitated for a beat, the door clicking shut behind him. The sound felt final, like a lock sliding into place. No escape now.

Reggie moved with that same liquid grace, every step part of some internal rhythm only he seemed attuned to. It was unsettling, the way he seemed to glide through his own space with so little effort, like he was both the host and a piece of the room itself, stitched into the fabric of it. Ford watched, half-captive by the ease of it all, as Reggie folded himself down onto one of the cushions, his legs crossed and arms reaching out, hands already working with practiced precision. The herbs and bags appeared out of nowhere, slipping through his fingers with a dexterity that seemed almost choreographed. It was almost hypnotic, the way his hands moved, quick but deliberate, like he was performing a ritual.

Ford hovered for a moment, hovering on the edge of the room as if it might swallow him whole. But then his body gave in—he was exhausted, and something about the room only amplified the feeling. His legs buckled beneath him, and he sank down onto one of the cushions. It was too soft, pulling him in deeper than he wanted, and he could feel his muscles loosening against his will, like the house itself was forcing him to relax.

His head felt heavy, bloated with thoughts that buzzed just under the surface, too full, too much. Most of them were back at the lab, still wrapped up in that black hole he had been circling for weeks—Bill, the silence that came after, and the ache that sat lodged there between his ribs, refusing to move. He had been running from it, pushing his body beyond the point of breaking just to drown out the noise, but the quiet had only made it louder. Ford leaned back against the cushion, feeling the weight of everything pressing in on him.

His eyes wandered to Reggie’s hands again, watching the way they danced over the table, delicate but steady, moving as if on autopilot. Ford didn’t want to be here, not really. He wanted to be back in the lab, in the chaos of it all, where there wasn’t time to think. But he was here. He was tired. So he let his mind drift, trying to stay distant, biding his time until it was over. Until he could leave.

There was an eruption of laughter from the next room, a sudden burst of sound that tore through Ford’s already frayed nerves. It grated against him, sharp and unwelcome, pulling him further away from any hope of calm. He didn’t have the energy to interact, to smile and nod through small talk. He shot a look at Fidds, a silent plea. This wasn’t a part of the deal , his expression said. Fidds responded with a light shrug, as to say what can you do?

“Here you go, darling,” Reggie’s voice slid into the air, velvety and low, interrupting their silent conversation. The endearment barely registered at first, Ford’s thoughts too scattered to process the words, or the slow movement of a joint, already rolled and lit, being passed over to Fidds. Ford’s gaze followed the motion.

Reggie sank back when Fidds freed his hand, as though he was carefully unfolding himself into the space between them. He reclined on one elbow, his body draped in loose fabric that seemed to cling just where it needed to, revealing in some places and falling away in others. There was an intentionality in the way he settled, languid and unhurried, like time bent around him. Ford’s attention snagged on the glint of gold against Reggie’s chest, the faint shimmer from the chains that lay in the hollow of his collarbone, contrasted by his dark skin. It reminded him of someone—of Bill. Of the easy way he commanded attention, of the sharpness in his gaze, the way the room always bent to him, too.

Reggie wasn’t sitting too close—not close enough to feel suffocating—but close enough that Ford could see every detail: the smooth skin exposed through the gap in his shirt, the subtle shift of his muscles beneath it. The chains shimmered in the low light, catching the warmth of the room and throwing it back. And the way Reggie let himself be seen, with that casual ease. It caught Ford off guard by it—the openness, the confidence that came with it.

And then Ford realized, with a sudden jolt of embarrassment, that Reggie had been watching him watch. His heart stuttered, a flicker of panic tightening his stomach. He snapped his gaze forward, heat crawling up his neck as he swallowed hard. The moment was gone as quickly as it had come, but it left something heavy between them—an unspoken acknowledgment. Ford felt it settle in the air. He tried to focus, to steady himself, but the weight of Reggie’s eyes was heavy. He could feel it like a tangible thing, pressing in on him. Though, Reggie said nothing. Ford shifted in his seat, willing the tension in his body to ease, but Reggie, for his part, didn’t seem bothered. He rolled the joint between his fingers when it came back to him, a practiced ease as he’d done everything else, like the brief moment hadn’t rattled him at all.

“ So , Fiddy,” Reggie finally said, his voice light and casual, “how’s life, how’s the wife?”

“Good, good,” Fiddleford replied, glancing over at Ford, his smile easy and familiar. “We’ve been making some real progress, mostly thanks to Ford here. He never leaves the lab.” He chuckled lightly. “I had to drag him out here kicking and screaming.”

Ford felt the eyes on him before he saw them, a warm sense of examination prickling at the back of his neck. He shifted a little, trying to ignore the sudden awareness of himself in the space, his shoulders stiff against the cushion. Reggie’s grin widened, a flash of amusement on his face, but Reg didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate inhale from the joint, letting the smoke swirl around him as his gaze remained on Ford—narrowing slightly, analyzing him in a way that felt layered, as if he were seeing more than Ford was willing to show. Ford gathered enough courage to meet Reggie’s gaze, flashing a tight smile as he rested his arms on his knees, clasping a hand around his wrist to comfort himself.

“Workaholic, huh?” Reggie finally said, his tone light and playful, though there was a note of a deeper curiosity—or perhaps recognition. He exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift between their shared eye contact, and then, casually, Reg held the joint out in Ford’s direction. “Relax, friend.”

Fidds made a move to take the joint, shaking his head with a knowing laugh. “Oh, no, he doesn’t really—”

“Sure,” Ford cut in, his hand moving quicker than Fiddleford’s, snatching the joint from Reggie’s fingers. The interruption felt abrupt, but Ford didn’t care.

Fidds turned to him, surprised. “You sure?”

Ford shrugged, already bringing the joint to his lips. “Yeah.” His voice came out more casual than he felt. The desperation was there, beneath the surface, an urgent need to drown out the noise. The room felt like it was closing in, the colors, the heat, everything blurring at the edges, and he just wanted to sink into it, disappear into anything that wasn’t the silence that had wrapped itself around him for weeks. “It’s Sunday, right?” he added, throwing out the excuse like it could explain away the restless impulsiveness.

Reggie’s low chuckle followed, a sound that rumbled through the room like a warm breeze. “That’s the spirit,” he said, his voice smooth as he lightly punched Ford’s shoulder, movements unhurried, deliberate. The loose fabric of his shirt shifted slightly when he rested his arm on a pillow. His jewelry gleamed in the dim light, catching Ford’s eye again, but just for a moment.

Ford inhaled, and the smoke hit his lungs hard, stinging more than he’d anticipated, less forgiving than the cigarettes he was used to. It felt thick, clinging to the walls of his chest, like it didn’t want to leave. He coughed—once, sharp—and then immediately took another drag, if only to avoid Reggie’s gaze, which rested on him longer than he could ignore. There was something in the way Reggie looked at him, not intrusive, but like he was waiting. Their eyes met again, briefly, and Ford quickly averted his gaze, focusing on the swirl of smoke that drifted in front of him as he exhaled, his chest tightening with the strain of trying not to cough again.

A burst of voices shattered the uneasy quiet. The door creaked open, and two men strolled in, heavy-footed, their steps too loud for the room’s low thrum. “Hey, Fidds is here!” one of them called out, pulling Ford’s attention like a hook. He glanced over, catching them in that instant—the type that fit everywhere and nowhere, guys who knew how to slip into spaces like they’d been there forever. Their familiarity with Fidds was immediate, like muscle memory. Fiddleford stood up to greet them, laughing as they clapped him on the back, handshakes exchanged in quick, fluid movements Ford couldn’t follow. They acted like they’d known him for years, even if it had only been months.

Ford’s stomach twisted, though it wasn’t jealousy exactly. It was more a sharp pang of awareness—how easily Fiddleford blended in, how quickly he found his place here, while Ford remained on the outskirts, out of rhythm, out of sync.

The taller one, bulky with long hair, caught sight of Ford and let out a goofy laugh. “Hey, yo! Is that your guy, Fid?” he shouted, then turned his head toward the room he’d just come from. “Guys, check it out! Fidds is in here gettin’ his boss highn’ shit!”

Ford felt heat crawl up his neck, shrinking back into the cushion as two more people filtered into the room. Suddenly, it was too much—too many eyes on him, the joint in his hand suddenly feeling like a spotlight. The pressure tightened in his chest, the space growing smaller, more suffocating with each passing second. He could barely breathe under the weight of their casual, curious stares.

Fidds, sensing the shift in Ford from across the room, placed a hand on the guy’s chest, his voice light but firm. “Hey, give him a break, don’t crowd his genius.” He teased, though there was a gentleness to it, a way of diffusing the moment before it could press further. He gestured toward Ford. “Everyone, this is my friend and colleague, Dr. Ford Pines. Ford, this is—well, everyone.” He chuckled, pointing them out one by one. “Suz, Charlie, Rich, this eccentric fella here is Bobby,” he added, patting the taller guy’s chest. “And, well, you’ve already met Reg.”

Ford gave a tight nod, his discomfort rising with every name that was thrown at him. Instinctively, he brought the joint back to his lips, taking another hit, hoping the burn would soothe the sudden anxiety in his gut. “How’d ya do,” he managed to mumble through a cough, his voice barely carrying across the room.

Beside him, Ford could feel Reggie smirking, the subtle curve of his lips unmistakable in the periphery. The moment stretched on, Ford’s pulse loud in his ears as the room’s energy hummed around him, all of it too much, too fast, but somehow still slow enough to drag him under.

Bobby’s energy bubbled up again, immediately distracted as soon as introductions were done. “Fid, man, you gotta check out all the work we did on the truck,” he said, already tugging on Fidd’s arm, his body half-turned toward the back door as if it was a foregone conclusion that they’d go.

Fiddleford hesitated, glancing back at Ford. There was a flicker on his face—an apology, maybe—but it was too quick to catch, slipping away before Ford could decide what to do with it. “Yeah, okay, I’ll come take a look,” Fidds finally said, his voice soft but resigned.

Ford shot him a look, hoping it would be enough— You’re leaving me here? —but Fiddleford either didn’t notice or pretended not to. He was already swept up in the group’s orbit, their conversation flowing easily as they drifted toward the back door. It was all mechanics and jargon now—engines, gears, repairs—familiar territory for Fiddleford, their voices overlapping in that seamless fashion as they moved toward the back door, voices overlapping, pulling him further away.

Now Ford was alone, high, with a stranger.

He sat there, his body stiffening, the cushions suddenly too soft, too inviting, like they might swallow him whole if he let his guard down. He blinked, trying to focus, but the room felt like it was tilting, the corners dimming into shadow. When he looked up again, Reggie hadn’t moved. He was still there, lounging against the pillows, one arm resting casually on his bent knee, the other holding the joint, now half-burnt. His shirt still hung loose, and Ford couldn’t help but notice the way the fabric shifted, revealing more glimpses of smooth skin, the gold of his jewelry catching the ambient light.

Reg wasn’t saying anything, just watching Ford in that same quiet, expectant way. It wasn’t pressing, but it wasn’t subtle either. Ford felt his pulse quicken, not from any real fear but from the strangeness of the moment. He cleared his throat, the sound too loud, too sharp. Reggie didn’t flinch, just lifted the joint and offered it again, the gesture casual but somehow pointed. Ford took it, let the familiar burn of smoke settle into his lungs, its warmth filling the silence, the haze of it making the room feel more distant, softer around the edges. When he exhaled, the smoke twisted into the air, dissolving the tension for a brief second.

“You’re really wound up, huh?” Reggie mused, finally breaking the silence, his tone light, almost playful, as if he were teasing a friend. He took the joint back from Ford’s fingers, his touch idle for a fraction longer than necessary, sending a warm jolt through Ford, an ignition of those idle nerves. “Do you mind?” he asked, tugging gently on Ford’s extra finger. It felt intimate, like a small secret shared in the open air. Ford blinked, feeling disoriented, the world around him a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds. Was it the weed? His racing thoughts? Maybe it was a combination of both, but he found himself humorously complying with Reggie’s curiosity, holding out his hand to let him observe.

Reg’s hands were soft compared to Ford’s, his fingers long and slender, a fraction of the size of his own. They felt delicate but precise, the kind of touch that wasn’t accidental. Reg ran his thumb over Ford’s scarred knuckles first, tracing the jagged edges where the skin had split and bled. The scabs still clung to the surface, tender reminders of the glass that had torn through several days before. “Reckless, too,” Reg said, his lips pulling into a slight smile, tsking in mock disapproval. His eyes flicked upward, locking onto Ford’s with a playful intensity, like he was daring him to admit something Ford didn’t want to say.

Ford coughed, the weight of that look settling in his chest, a quiet pressure he wasn’t prepared for. The kind that made it hard to breathe. “Yeah… “ his voice broke through. “—little accident in the lab,” he said. It was a lie, and Ford couldn’t help but feel like Reg knew it, it was in his eyes, the uncomfortable sense that he saw right through him.

“What do you do there?” Reg’s voice was casual, but the question hung heavier than it should have, biding between them like it wanted more than just a simple answer. Ford hesitated, feeling the familiar knot of unease rising inside him.

He tried to deflect, laugh off the question, the sound rough and jagged, but it escaped anyway. It surprised him—how genuine it felt. It might have been the first real laugh he’d let out in weeks. “I can’t tell you,” he said, a slight lift at the corner of his lips. “—it’s classified,”

He could feel the tension tugging at him, the way he was leaning into the moment without fully being present. Reg’s touch was grounding, though, making him more aware of the room, the warmth, the closeness, but he was still far off, half-immersed in the pull of his own thoughts. The part of him that was still stuck where Bill had left him. But he was here now, Reggie seemed warm and inviting, and Ford, in his exhaustion and restlessness, felt like he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to lean in—just a little further.

Reg chuckled, lips barely parted, the sound low and conspiratorial. “A man with secrets..?” he mused, flipping Ford’s hand over with a theatrical flourish, turning his palm over and presenting it like a stage. “Reveal them to me . ” The words were soft, yet they carried weight, a teasing command. His index finger traced along the lines of Ford’s palm, a featherlight touch that sent a shiver up Ford’s arm, the sensation startling in its gentleness. It was subtle, but Ford felt it—the way Reg’s touch seemed to draw out the tension buried in his muscles, in his mind, the warmth from his hand seeping slowly, steadily into his skin.

He felt himself leaning into it, almost unconsciously. The contact was soft but insistent, and for a moment Ford allowed himself to sink into the sensation, to forget about everything gnawing at him from the inside out. The soft hum of the house, the low flicker of light from the candle burning on the table—it all blurred together, folding into the quiet intimacy of this exchange. “I felt your aura the moment you stepped into my doorway,” Reg continued, his tone dipping lower, eyes scanning Ford’s palm with a seriousness. “You’re very powerful, you know. ‘In tune.’”

Ford blinked, caught in the intensity of Reggie’s gaze, and it threw him off balance. He shook his head slightly, instinctively pulling back from the weight of it. “My mother used to say the same thing,” he said, his voice a little rougher, trying to tether the moment in something lighter. “She read palms, too.”

Reg lifted an eyebrow, intrigued. “Well acquainted with chiromancy? Aren’t you just full of surprises,” he said with a quiet grin, the words light but curious. “She had the sight?” His gaze drifted back to Ford’s hand, the question hanging in the air with the same weight as before, though his tone remained casual.

Ford let out another chuckle and shrugged, it was genuine, warmer this time, less guarded. “She said she did,” he replied. “Although, I don’t know how much I believe in that stuff,” His skepticism felt rehearsed, the doubt practiced. It was a lie. The things he’d witnessed, the unspeakable forces he’d encountered—they’d shattered the framework of everything he thought he understood about the world. But disbelief had become a convenient mask, a way to keep himself at a distance. He wasn’t denying it for Reg’s sake, though—this was Ford’s way of keeping the moment alive, keeping the exchange moving, as if daring Reggie to dig deeper.

And Reg didn’t falter. His fingers moved slowly, methodically, tracing the lines of Ford’s palm like they held a map, like he could read what was buried deep beneath the surface, pulling it out from Ford’s core. His touch wasn’t invasive, but there was a precision to it, an almost unsettling tenderness that made Ford feel exposed, like something private had been unearthed without his permission. The sensation stirred deep within him—a ripple of vulnerability that twisted itself into his gut, mingling with the curiosity that had always gnawed at the edges of his mind. This moment, simple as it was, felt like the most intense positivity Ford had experienced in ages. And despite the discomfort, he was clinging to it, reluctant to let it slip away.

Reg’s gaze drifted up from Ford’s palm, the smoldering joint dangling between his fingers. He passed it to Ford without breaking the connection between them, the lingering warmth of his hand a reminder of the touch they’d just shared. Ford accepted it, taking a slow drag, his eyes never leaving Reg’s. The weight between them was a force, pulling at the tension bunched in Ford’s chest, slowly unwinding it.

Reg’s laugh broke the silence, soft and playful, bubbling up from his throat like it had escaped without permission. “What?” Ford asked, a slight smile playing at his lips again, feeling a lightness begin to settle into his bones.

Reg shook his head, his laughter sputtering past white teeth, the sound was infectious. “Your eyes are so fuckin’ red,” he teased, thick amusement in his voice.

Ford exhaled, the smoke ghosting around his head, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like he had to defend himself, didn’t feel the need to armor up. He just smiled back, letting the moment hang between them, the air heavy but easy.

A slight shiver slid down Ford’s spine as Reg’s fingertip returned to his skin, grazing the curve of his palm, just lightly enough to feel like a breath of wind. Ford exhaled, the sound shaky in his throat, and suddenly, it wasn’t just Reg’s words or the touch itself. It was the way Ford felt his own body responding, betraying him in the quiet space between them. He was too tired to fight it, too worn down to resist the pull any longer.

Reg’s eyes glinted with that familiar knowing, an amused awareness that settled into his gaze, like he could see past Ford’s careful exterior with ease. “Since you’re experienced,” Reg started, his voice dipping into a melodic rhythm, “I won’t give you the usual surface-level read. On the house, of course.” He paused, letting the offer hang between them, a subtle invitation that felt more intimate than it should have. “We’ll start simple, and build up to it,” he added.

Ford nodded, the gesture slow, and suddenly the act of swallowing felt thick and deliberate, like the air had shifted. He told himself it was cotton mouth, effects of the smoke, but it didn’t explain the way Reg’s presence clung to him.

“You have a strong head line.” Reg paused, watching Ford carefully, the intensity of his gaze tightening Ford’s stomach. “Means you’re analytical. A thinker. Figured as much…” He smirked, eyes holding Ford’s as if daring him to react. “But you also tend to overthink. Get lost in your head. Wrapped up?”

Ford’s pulse quickened, the anxious thrum matching the weight of the words, like they were brushing up too close. “Yeah,” he murmured, the answer slipping out before he could think. He glanced down at his palm, trying to tether himself, but his gaze slid to the shimmer of gold at Reg’s neck instead, catching the soft light as it rested on his skin. He swallowed, clearing his throat, forcing himself to keep his cool. “That’s pretty vague, though,” Ford replied, his tone leveling out. “Doesn’t everyone get stuck in their own head?”

Reg laughed, the sound light but full of meaning. “Patience is a virtue.” He reminded, letting the moment settle before his fingers moved again, soft and deliberate as they traced along Ford’s palm, following the lines. “This heart line here…” Reg’s fingertip followed a faint curve toward Ford’s first pinky. “It shows you care deeply. But you—” His finger pressed into Ford’s palm, the contact sending a brief rush through him. “You’re special.” Their eyes met again. “You have two heart lines.” Reg’s finger drifted down the line. “You build walls. Keep people at a distance. Afraid to let them in?”

Ford kept himself steady, playing it off. “Again, this could be applied to most people,” he said, his voice measured. But there was something about the way Reg’s gaze held his that made it feel personal, like the truth was creeping close to the surface.

Reg was pensive, quiet for a moment. “You wanna get deep?” he asked, reaching behind him and plucking another pre-rolled joint from the table. He held the end up to a candle burning nearby before bringing it to his lips. “Let’s get deep.” Reg shifted his focus back to Ford’s palm, his fingertips brushing over it again, this time with more purpose.

Ford watched as Reggie shifted his focus back to his hand, the joint passed between them almost as an afterthought. The smoke lingered in the air, thick but secondary to the slow, deliberate movement of Reg’s fingers as they traced the familiar lines of Ford’s palm, now with more purpose.

“You’re not an easy read, but ,” Reg murmured, his touch firmer now, his thumb pressing into Ford’s skin as though searching for something just beneath the surface. His voice was low, almost playful, yet the intensity in his gaze remained unwavering. He let a few beats pass, letting the tension settle around them. “A brutish romantic with a soft spot,” he said, a teasing smile breaking through as he exhaled smoke. “Methodical, disciplined… tethered to routine. The type to wear a tie on the weekends,” he added, hooking a finger around the fabric at Ford’s neck as he spoke, gently tugging it from the V of his sweater.

The sensation sent a jolt through Ford, a mix of embarrassment and unexpected thrill coursing through him as the tie slid out of place, the slight rustle of fabric heightening his awareness of their proximity. He swallowed hard, a flush creeping up his neck, feeling exposed yet strangely exhilarated and Reggie continued. “Idealistic, egotistical… but with enough charm to use it to your advantage,”

Ford’s lips twitched, a flicker of amusement crossing his face as his eyebrows lifted, his gaze dropping into the lines of his own palm. “Egotistical?” he echoed, his voice low, laced with disbelief. He studied his hand like he might find the word scribbled somewhere between the creases.

Reg chuckled, a soft sound that broke through the haze of smoke. “Look, here,” he said, his tone warm, almost coaxing as his fingertip brushed over Ford’s skin with an easy familiarity. He traced a line where the Head and Heart lines seemed to blur, running his finger slowly along the intersection. “You’ve got a partial Simian Line,” he explained, pausing just long enough for the weight of the words to settle between them. “That’s rare.”

Ford watched the movement, the subtle touch drawing his focus, making it hard to look away. Reg’s voice dipped lower, a teasing edge to it. “Your logic and emotions tangle together. It must be agony .”

Ford gave him a look, skeptical, but there was an exchange in the shared glance. It was like a challenge, the way Reg didn’t seem to break the connection between them. Ford’s lips twisted upward, barely noticeable but enough to cut through the heaviness. “Agony, huh?” he muttered, his voice rough, raspy from the smoke. “This guy sounds dramatic.”

Reg grinned, another quiet laugh rumbling through him. “Just calling it like I see it.”

As the joint passed between them, each handoff felt deliberate, more intimate than the last. Their fingers brushed lightly, a subtle connection that deepened with every touch. The smoke curled around them, thick and fragrant, softening the edges of the room, the world outside. Ford let the warmth of it fill him, dulling the noise in his head, muting the sharp angles of his thoughts. For a moment, neither of them spoke. They just looked at each other, the quiet holding them in place.

Reg’s voice stayed soft when it came again, but there was an insistence in the way he continued, his fingertip grazing a barely-there arc on Ford’s palm, a touch that felt almost reverent. “And this—your Venus ,” he murmured, punctuating the word while tracing the faint curve. “It shows you’ve got deep romantic tendencies,” he went on, the weight of his words pressing in on the space between them. “Even if you don’t want to admit it.”

Ford didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the way Reg’s finger traced along his skin. His breath hitched, when he felt a nail lightly graze his last finger, an isolated sensation that Ford was not used to. “And this?” Reg’s fingers brushed across it, lingering there, gaining a tight breath from Ford. “You’re special, no doubt about it. You’ve got something about you—something otherworldly. You feel like you’re meant for more, don’t you? Ambitious, driven, but…” His thumb lightly pressed into the base of Ford’s hand. “This here shows me you have a weakness. Where you’re vulnerable.” He passed the joint back.

Ford’s lips brushed the edge of the joint, inhaling slowly, feeling the heat settle into his lungs as he repeated Reg’s words. “And what’s that weakness, exactly?”

Reggie’s eyes glinted, his lip catching briefly between his teeth, a moment of pause before letting Ford’s words slip into the haze. He didn’t answer, not directly, but instead let the silence build, lingering as his gaze traced the lines of Ford’s hand again. “Those walls,” he murmured, his voice softer now, heavier. “They sure are high…” His fingertip trailed lower this time, down the length of Ford’s palm, grazing the sensitive skin at his wrist.

Ford’s breath hitched, the touch a jolt against his nerves. He didn’t mean to pull back, but his body reacted instinctively, a light gasp escaping him as he tried to retract his hand. Reg’s grip tightened, not harsh, but firm enough to keep him anchored in place.

Their eyes locked, the air between them intense, charged. Ford’s breath was uneven now, heavier than he meant it to be, his pulse thrumming in his throat. But Reg didn’t break eye contact, didn’t let the tension snap. His gaze was steady, sharp, reading every flicker of emotion that Ford couldn’t quite suppress, commanding his attention.

“But you’re waiting…” Reg’s voice was just above a whisper, each word careful. His finger grazed Ford’s wrist again, more intentional this time, pressing lightly against the thrum of his pulse. “For someone bold enough…” he continued, the words slipping between them like a promise. “…to take it.”

Ford’s throat felt tight, his body teetering on some edge he wasn’t prepared for, but he didn’t pull away this time. Reg’s grip loosened, his fingers easing, cradling Ford’s hand with a tenderness that almost felt out of place. Ford stayed, breath shaky, his body betraying the defenses he had spent so long building. He didn’t relent, didn’t retreat.

“And once they have…” Reg’s voice was velvet-soft, wrapping around Ford’s resolve. His touch drifted, fingertips brushing down the edge of Ford’s palm before finally pulling away, leaving the skin there tingling in its absence. “You can’t stop...”

Ford’s pulse raced beneath the surface, his body feeling impossibly heavy as the weight of the moment bore down on him. His mind felt thick, hazy, every thought coming slower than the last, like it was slipping through his fingers before he could grasp it. He didn’t respond—he couldn’t. He was sinking into the quiet pull between them, and for once, he didn’t want to stop.

“You’re a fire,” Reg murmured, his voice soft but insistent, threading through the fog in Ford’s mind. “Burning bright, even if you bury it beneath the fear… and doubt.” His touch slid over Ford’s palm again, this time more deliberate, starting at the heel and moving upward. He slowly intertwined Ford’s fingers with his own, the touch wasn’t rushed—it was slow, almost agonizing in its tenderness.The movement subtle but charged, letting his words hover in the air between them.

“And once you’re cracked…” Reg continued, his voice even lower now, his touch deliberate, sliding over the curves of Ford’s fingers. “You just can’t help yourself—”

Ford barely registered the shift at first, the gentle way Reg’s fingers slipped between his own, testing the space. The intimacy of it, the simple gesture, it made Ford’s heart stutter. Reg leaned forward slightly, fully intertwining their hands, “You sink your teeth in—” his voice was soft, teasing, punctuating his point by clasping Ford’s hand into his own.

A bolt of awareness shot through Ford, snapping him out of the fog he’d drifted in. He couldn’t tell if it was the weed, the conversations, or just the way Reg seemed to navigate the space between them so easily, but he didn’t realize how close they’d gotten until now, and suddenly, everything felt hyperreal—the warmth of Reg’s hand, the buzz, the shrinking distance between them.

Ford could feel his pulse racing, a wave of surprise mingling with an unsettled pulse. It was like an itch under his skin, a quiet stirring that made him uncomfortable. Reg wasn’t playing coy anymore; the air between them had thickened, charged with an energy that neither of them could deny. Ford’s heart thudded harder, the realization quickly sinking in, heavy and undeniable.

“You’re very handsome,” Reg murmured, his voice smooth, coaxing, the compliment slipping out so effortlessly it felt rehearsed. Yet, it hit Ford squarely, easily peeling away another layer of his exterior. There was no mistaking the way Reg looked at him—an intensity, an almost predatory focus that tugged at Ford, drawing him in despite himself.

“Thank you,” Ford responded, the words spilling out before he could even think them through. They felt foreign on his lips, stiff and out of place. His voice wavered, betraying the storm inside him as he realized just how close they were now and how their hands were still clasped together. The haze of the high wrapped tighter around him, blurring the edges of everything. He felt the room growing smaller, the space more intimate. Reg’s proximity was intoxicating, the quiet promise lingering between them, and Ford felt himself teetering on the edge of something he wasn’t prepared for.

Amid the swirl of sensation, guilt surged through him, sharp and unwelcome, cutting through the fog. His mind flitted back to Bill and he realized that this was the longest he’d gone without thinking of him in weeks, without the emptiness that had been gnawing at him since. But the void was still there, like a gaping wound, and the thought of filling it with anyone else sent a pang of regret through him. It wasn’t fair—none of this was.

The ache in his chest became unbearable. He sucked in a breath, pulling his hand back in a sharp, reflexive motion, retreating before he could let himself fall any further. The air between them felt cold in an instant, the warmth of Reg’s touch fading too quickly. Ford’s movements were jerky, deliberate, as he turned away, reaching into his coat, searching for an escape from the intimacy that had come too close for comfort.

“Can I smoke these in here?” Ford’s voice cut through the heavy silence, awkward and abrupt, like a stone dropped into still water. The tension shattered, fragmented around them as he fumbled to fish a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. The familiar weight settled in his hand, a small comfort, something solid to hold onto in the rising warmth of the moment.

Reg laughed, a low, rich sound that filled the space between them, effortless and unbothered. It felt like he could hear the chaos in Ford’s head, the way his thoughts tumbled over one another, trying and failing to resist the pull of the moment. “You can smoke whatever you like in here,” Reg replied, his tone easy, unfazed. He took another slow drag from the joint, his gaze steady and unflinching, watching Ford like he could see right through him.

Ford’s hands shook slightly as he pulled out a cigarette, turning it over in his fingers. He took a deep breath, hoping the familiar ritual would steady him, but it did little to quell the whirlpool of emotions churning inside. The room seemed to close in around him, the boundaries of this strange, intimate space blurring. He could feel Reg’s eyes on him, studying him, and that gaze—it wasn’t just curious, it was deeper, more knowing. It made him nervous.

Ford fumbled through his pockets, fingers clumsily brushing the fabric in search of matches. “Fuck,” he muttered around the cigarette hanging between his lips, realizing they were still tucked away in his lab coat, far away from here. His eyes flicked back to Reg. “You got a light?”

Reg didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his hand slid around the back of Ford’s neck, the touch soft, deliberate, sending a pulse of electricity through Ford’s veins. Before Ford could react, Reg was pulling him closer, their faces just inches apart. The joint was almost burned down now, just a smoldering ember at the tip, but enough to get the job done.

Reg leaned in, the joint held between his lips as he brought it to Ford’s cigarette. Their faces were so close now, Ford could feel the heat of Reg’s breath mixing with his own, the soft exhale of smoke curling between them like a veil, thick and intimate. The flicker of the flame illuminated Reg’s eyes—dark, focused, and anything but subtle now.

Ford’s heart pounded, a rhythm that matched the tension rising between them, the closeness almost unbearable. The ember glowed, casting a warm, brief light across their faces, and Ford inhaled sharply, his cigarette igniting with a soft crackle. But he barely noticed, too consumed by the way Reg was looking at him, the intensity in his gaze.

Reg’s fingers were like feathers at the back of Ford’s neck, his thumb brushing against the nape of his skin, light, but covetous. Ford’s pulse raced, the warmth of Reg’s touch seeping into him, disarming him in a way he hadn’t expected. The smoke between them thickened, curling up in lazy spirals, filling the space with a heavy, intoxicating haze. Ford exhaled slowly, his breath mingling with Reg’s as they stayed close, neither one pulling back.

Ford felt himself loosening, surrendering to the look in Reg’s eyes, yet beneath that ease lay an undercurrent of apprehension. It was subtle at first, almost like a gentle pull drawing him deeper into the moment, but then it magnified—every detail sharper, inescapable. The way Reg’s shirt hung loosely off one shoulder, the deliberate way he sat, angling his body just enough for Ford to catch the view he wanted him to see, every move intentional. Ford was all too aware of it, and that awareness made it intoxicating. Made it terrifying.

Reg was leaning closer now, the tension between them so thick it buzzed in the air. Ford’s heart thudded wildly, matching the flurry of emotions swirling in his head. The thrill of this moment battled with the shadow that dwelled in his mind. Bill . Bill, who was always there, an ache that never fully left. But it was different now. He was tired. He was high. He was sad.

And Reg—Reg was here. Solid, real, warm, his fingers ghosting across Ford’s thigh, light enough to be innocent but with an edge of intent that made Ford’s pulse spike. It was like a flame igniting his nerves, spreading heat through his body, making it hard to think straight, hard to resist the pull between them.

They were just looking at each other now, every second feeling like a step closer and Ford wasn’t sure he could pull away from it. His hand stayed just a moment longer on Ford’s thigh, igniting more than just his skin. They were so close now—close enough that Ford could smell faint fragrance of Reggie’s lotion, how it clung to his skin—he smelled like patchouli. Earthy, grounding, yet heady in the thick air closing between them.

Ford liked patchouli.

“You ever been with a man before?” Reg asked, his voice quiet and smooth as his fingers tiptoed further up Ford’s thigh, tracing delicate patterns against his denim. The intimacy of the gesture sent shivers through Ford, igniting a warmth that spread from the point of contact.

Ford met his gaze again, feeling the gravity of the moment settle around them. The facade of subtlety in Reg’s eyes had vanished, replaced by curiosity and an intensity that made Ford feel flush. That curiosity came with a weight of memories he still couldn’t shake. He could almost feel Bill’s presence in the room—the sharpness of his wit, the intensity of his gaze that had always left Ford feeling both exposed and exhilarated.

Reg was different—but he was confident and charming in a way that drew Ford in, filling a void he hadn’t realized he’d been yearning to fill. Reg wasn’t Bill, not even close, but there was something tantalizing about his attention, the way he flattered and teased, reading Ford like a book, getting under his skin. The thought stirred a bittersweet ache within him. The turmoil twisted in his gut, the allure of Reg’s touch and the pulse of longing made it difficult to think clearly. He swallowed hard, battling the nerves that threatened to overwhelm him.

Ford nodded lightly to the question, redness creeping across his cheeks as he fought to reconcile the whirlwind of emotions inside him. Reg wasn’t Bill, but maybe—he could just— pretend?

In an instant, the spell broke. Ford recoiled, drawing a measured breath and sitting up straighter, guilt spilling through him as the moment slipped away. He couldn’t do it. Quickly, he took a puff of his cigarette and retreated, the smoke swirling around him as he tucked into himself, a futile attempt to mask the tension that still crackled in the air. He couldn’t bear to look at Reg, his leg bouncing nervously under the weight of his eyes.

Reg rested back on his elbow, a tight smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, as if to savor the remnants of that moment. Ford caught his breath, the memory of their closeness was heavy in the smoky air, like a half-finished thought, tantalizing and unresolved. Regret was already bubbling up in Ford’s chest. This is exactly why he left you. He pulled his knees closer to his body, keeping his eyes fixed forward, puffing at his cigarette, resisting.

Reggie just looked at him, a knowing expression settling on his features. “You’ve already bit, hm?” he asked, his tone a teasing caress, yet there was a deeper undercurrent, tender and understanding.

Ford closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, savoring the familiar burn of the cigarette. He let the smoke roll from his mouth in a slow, deliberate stream, each exhale a quiet acknowledgment of the truth he couldn’t quite articulate. He nodded quickly, nervously, the admission heavy on him, mingling with the haze of the moment.

Reggie’s gaze roamed over Ford, lingering. It felt disarming and nerve wracking. “Is he kind?” he inquired, his voice low and rich, the question weaving itself into the fragile fabric of their conversation.

Ford swallowed hard, the words lodged in his throat like stones as he fixed his gaze forward, unable to turn back and face him. He felt the smoke curl around him, a gentle embrace that offered both comfort and confinement. Stillness stretched between them, thick with unspoken truths and the weight of concession.

“I see,” Reggie said, his voice dropping further, almost conspiratorial, as if sharing a secret. He began swaying his knee back and forth, a rhythmic motion that mirrored the tension building in the air around them. “Do you like that?” he pressed, a daring curiosity lacing his words.

Ford remained silent, his body taut with the effort of holding back, wrestling with the question’s gravity and its answer. Stillness fell between them again; responding not with his voice, nor with his body. But the answer was there, hanging in the space between them, pulsing with unacknowledged longing. He didn’t need to say anything; the truth lay in the way his breath quickened, the way his heart raced, a confession spoken in the silence.

Laughter erupted from the other room, shattering the fragile bubble they had created. The sound spilled into the space like a sudden gust of wind, accompanied by the slam of the back door and the clamor of boots stomping across the floor. Fiddleford and two other house guests reentered the living room, their exuberance vibrant and chaotic. Ford felt a conflicting rush of relief and disappointment wash over him—relief that the pressure of the moment had lifted, but disappointment that he was losing what he hadn’t quite grasped, and the relief it offered him. But the weight of Reg’s gaze felt too heavy to bear, and he wanted to leave; he couldn’t take it anymore.

Fidds glanced over at the two men gathered at the table, his smile faltering as he took in Ford’s hunched posture, the way his leg bounced nervously—a telltale sign of his discomfort. Fidds had known Ford long enough to recognize when he was struggling, down to the way he was holding his cigarette; awkwardly pinched between his index finger and thumb. Classic Ford. Even if he didn’t know the details of what happened after he stepped out, the distance Ford had created between himself and Reg tugged at his heart. There was a flicker of guilt simmering in his chest; he’d thought inviting Ford out would help him relax, help him meet new people, but it had clearly backfired. Fidds wanted to be a good friend, to encourage Ford to break out of the shell he often retreated into, but all he saw now was Ford’s unease, the way he faced away, lost in thought.

“We’d better get going,” Fidd said, his voice cutting through the laughter as he locked eyes with Ford across the room, a silent acknowledgment of the turmoil they both felt. He was aware, on some level, that Ford was grappling with something deeper, something that made him work himself to the bone. Fidds wished he could pry it out, wished he could ease the burden Ford carried, but he didn’t know; the weight of absence heavy on his friend’s shoulders, the truth of his feelings. All he knew was that his friend was fighting battles unspoken. But he didn’t need to know. Not everything. Not if Ford wasn’t ready.

With a gentle resolve, Fidd slapped a wad of cash onto the glass table and smiled at Reg, the sound sharp and decisive against the laughter still bubbling in the background. “The store closes early on Sunday.” he said before he reached out to Ford, offering a hand to help him stand. Ford hesitated, feeling the remnants of the intimate moment with Reg still on his mind, the unvoiced confessions now overshadowed by the arrival of laughter and light. But he took Fidd’s hand, allowing himself to be pulled up, the warmth of their connection a reminder of the world beyond the chaos of his mind.

Reg reached the door first, his hand poised on the handle as he swung it open, helping them on their way out. Fidds walked out first, exchanging brief pleasantries as he and Reg passed one another. He went stepping into the cool air with a casualness, almost skipping down the concrete steps.

Ford followed just behind, flustered and desperate to escape the remnants of the visit. The cold air hit him like a splash of cold water, stark and refreshing, but it couldn’t shake the heat still lingering in his cheeks. He shoved his hands into his pockets, hoping to soothe what was wrestling in him. As he stepped through the threshold, he felt a gentle tug on the sleeve of his coat.

Ford turned back, caught off guard by Reg’s presence so close again. “Come back whenever you’re ready,” Reg said, his voice low and inviting, hanging in the air like a spell waiting to be broken.

Heat flooded Ford’s cheeks, and he cleared his throat, the sound sharp against the stillness between them. He nodded, feeling a mix of embarrassment and frustration coursing through him in a way that was unsettlingly exhilarating. Without another word, he turned away, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets as he trudged after Fidds, the weight of Reg’s words in his ear.

As they approached Fidds’ car, Ford felt the urge to look back, a magnetic pull compelling him to see if Reg was still watching. He stole a glance over his shoulder just as he reached the car door, and there was Reg, framed in the doorway, eyes fixed on him with an intensity that sent a perturbed vibration through Ford’s chest.

Suddenly, the air felt even cooler, sharper, and he snapped his head forward, tucking into his shoulders as if to shrink away from the warmth of Reg’s gaze. He felt exposed, and unsteady as he climbed into the car, the weight of the afternoon pressing down on him —uncertainty, agitation, and something that tasted faintly of observation. He couldn’t quite explain it, couldn’t articulate the tumult that churned in his chest. It was probably just in his head, he told himself, but the sensation remained. It felt, oddly, as though every moment spent in Reg’s presence had been a probing examination, intentional. He couldn’t shake the feeling—as though, that entire time, he was being watched.

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