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geniusboyy · 19 days ago

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Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 24

Melt

Ford woke abruptly, unexpectedly, the sting of frigid air stealing his breath and dragging him into consciousness. The sharp nip clung to his skin and had seeped deep into his muscles, pushing goosebumps to the surface. His heavy breaths plumed like smoke around his face as the coarse hairs covering his body prickled, catching against the flannel sheets as he shifted. He blinked a few times, adjusting to the jarring shift from the dream the cold seemingly forced him out of.

He groaned, drawing the blankets tighter in a futile attempt to preserve warmth—The furnace must have burnt out—And what terrible timing. Bill had only just been clinging to him. His skin was warm, his nails scorching Ford’s back as they curled and dug into his flesh. He’d had been making that face, the one where his lips parted in reverent gasps, his eyebrows tilting upward, eyelids fluttering—fuck, Ford loved it when Bill looked like that. He liked to savor it. It was that point just before Bill would begin shouting his name—But the moment had been wrested away, replaced with a cold that felt personal in its intrusion.

“What the hell happened..?” Bill’s now disembodied voice breathed impatiently into Ford’s ear, equally exasperated and perhaps even more frustrated. “And why is it so cold?”

Blindly, Ford’s hand reached for the nightstand, his fingers fumbling against the cluttered surface until they found his glasses. Slipping them on, he blinked the room into focus. He turned his head, his eyes falling on the snow-laden window; outside, the drifts loomed high, suffocating the landscape in icy silence. The pre-dawn light spilled across the horizon, its pink hue casting a false warmth through the frosted panes.

Ford sat up, rubbing his face as he exhaled heavily, the air sharp against his lips. “Furnace must’ve gone cold,” he muttered, his voice rough with sleep. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet recoiling slightly against the icy floor. “I forgot to fill it last night.”

He stood reluctantly, the cold creeping into the marrow of his bones, each step a test of resolve as he prepared for the bitter task ahead.

Ford’s body sagged as Bill groaned, the petulance in his tone sharp as the ice. “Go fill it and get back in bed,” Bill demanded, voice taut with impatience.

Ford rubbed his hands together, trying to summon some semblance of warmth before Bill’s voice cut through the frigid stillness again.

“Hurry.”

Ford rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” he said before muttering indistinctly. He reached for a sweater lying in a heap on the floor, tugging it over his head, its loose, worn fabric coarse against his bare skin. His hands fumbled with the sleeves as his feet slipped into his boots—he didn’t bother with socks, didn’t even bother tying the laces.

He trudged through the house, each heavy step echoing dully on the wooden floorboards. His untied boots thudded against the planks, loose and clumsy, the soles scraping with each shuffle. He grabbed an old barn coat off the hook by the door, the canvas cold and stiff against his body before his hand closed around the door handle. He gave it a sharp push. It didn’t open.

“Of course,” he grumbled, tightening his grip. He braced himself, grunting as his shoulder slammed against the wood. With a sudden crack, the seal of ice gave way, and the door flew open.

The drift fell on him in an instant, clinging to his hair, burrowing into the spaces he hadn’t bothered to cover in his groggy haste. Fine, powdery flakes found every crevice—slipping into the gaps between his boots, dusting his exposed neck, stinging his face. He sucked in a sharp breath, the cold biting against his lungs as the snow settled against his ankles, its wetness sharp and immediate. Shaking his head, he sent a spray of icy flakes scattering, his breath sharp and visible as it escaped in a string of curses.

Bill's laughter followed. “Smooth move, Poindexter.” he crowed with amusement.

“Oh, shut up,” Ford muttered, brushing snow from his shoulders as he trudged into the freezing knee-high drifts. The scene around him was pristine, otherworldly—a blank, frozen expanse that swallowed every sound and color. The air was so thin and brittle it felt as if the whole world might fracture; but all Ford could think about was getting this over with, getting back to the warmth of his bed, back to the dream, back to Bill.

He made his way around the cabin, only a few more steps until he could go back inside. Hunkering down to the woodpile, he brushed away the layer of snow with stiff fingers, the cold biting into the tender skin of his palm. His heart sank when he saw it: only two narrow strips of split pine, barely enough to stoke the fire, let alone sustain it. Frustration flared at the sight, and for a moment, the thought of storming back inside, cold be damned, was all too tempting. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Instead, he grabbed the wood and squared his shoulders against the cold.

He stood and took them to the furnace mere steps away, but through the snow—which had begun to melt and was now seeping through his fleece pants—made each step feel miles longer. He swung the small door open with a sharp pull, the metal hinges groaning in protest. The pathetic strips of kindling hit the interior with a hollow thunk, tossed inside with more force than necessary. His hands fumbled as he scraped around the base, searching for the container of weatherproof matches buried under the frost.

When his fingers finally closed around the box, he clicked it open with a snap, striking one against the grain. The flame sputtered to life, the phosphorus hissing as the tiny flame flickered against the frosty air. He tossed it under the wood and shut the door. He stood, shivering, his joints stiff from the unforgiving chill, but began the trek toward the shed anyway. Each step through the dense drifts was a deliberate, slow push against the weight of the snow pressing back on him.

Once he arrived at the stump beside the shed, he stomped and packed the snow around it, creating just enough space to work. He selected a heavy chunk of wood from the top of the pile, its bark coarse under his fingers, and placed it carefully on the chopping block before grabbing the axe from where it leaned against the wall. He gripped the handle tightly, the ice laden wood biting into his palms.

He drew the blade back slowly, the pull of the motion stretching his stiff, frozen muscles taut across his shoulders. With a sharp exhale, he swung. The impact reverberated through his body, a visceral jolt as the axe cracked the wood cleanly. He jerked the handle and pulled it free, adjusting his stance, and swinging again. The sharp tang of fresh pine mingled with the icy sting of the morning as he worked, each repetition becoming its own meditative rhythm: the heft of the tool, the arc of the motion, the clean separation of wood.

Sweat beaded along his temple, freezing almost as soon as it formed, same as the droplets that clung to the tips of his dark curls. Yet, the simple act—force meeting resistance, action meeting result—was a small rebellion against the frost tightening its grip on him, a way to coax warmth from the frozen world.

Another sharp swing and the blade sliced through the grain cleanly, plunged deep into the stump beneath. He yanked it free, pausing briefly to catch his breath, the air searing his lungs. He placed the one of the halves back on the block, angling it with precision, before hefting the axe again.

As the rhythm continued, the snow melted against his scalp and trickled down his temples, only to refreeze in delicate crystalline patterns, damp strands of hair began to hang in his face from the weight of ice. He could feel the wetness soaking through his fleece pants and pooling at his ankles, but he pressed on, letting the repetitive motion absorb him, his only defense against the cold.

He exhaled sharply through his teeth, the cloud of his breath dissipating in the frigid air as he swung. The blade stuck its mark with a satisfying crack, reverberating through his arms and down his spine. Another swing and follow through, and the wood split cleanly in two. The axe sank into the stump when it sliced through the log, its edge buried deep in the grain.

Ford felt the familiar hum of Bill beneath his skin, a low, persistent vibration that pulsed through him as he worked. He could feel Bill watching him, a lingering gaze that felt predatory in its quiet hunger. “You’re awfully good at that,” Bill remarked with a hint of amusement, his tone thick, almost languid. There was something undeniably magnetic about watching Ford work under the harsh conditions—the determination of his action.

“Glad you’re enjoying the show.” Ford replied, feeling Bill thrum and coil inside him along with the provocative observations as he brought the axe down again with a throaty groan, halving the wood in a single strike.

“Oh, my…” Bill drawled, his voice a teasing murmur in Ford’s ear, pulling his focus inward even as his body continued its work. “Wrap it up, Sixer, I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.”

Ford smirked faintly, adjusting his grip on the axe. “This doin’ something for you?” he asked, his tone amused as he swung again, the grunt that accompanied the motion escaping before he could stop it, further punctuating his words.

Bill practically purred at the sight. “Well, had we not been torn away from that lovely dream we were having, maybe it wouldn’t be so poignant, but—” A pause, deliberate and sultry, savoring the way Ford’s chest heaved as he caught his breath. “I suppose it… does something for me, yes.”

Ford chuckled, though the sound wavered, caught somewhere between the fatigue of the task at hand and a sharper, more insistent ache—the jarring interruption of a crescendo left incomplete, lingering in his body like an unresolved chord. He wiped a clump of snow from his lashes with stiff, clumsy fingers, sniffling as the wind bit at his exposed face. “I don’t think I’ll be able to fall back asleep after this,” he admitted finally, the words tumbling out on a foggy breath, but his tone carried the faintest trace of amusement.

“Tease,” Bill crooned, his tone saccharine and lilting, the word heavy with what had been left unfinished—indulgent and insistent.

“Sorry.” Ford shrugged, his tone playfully contrite, the corner of his mouth twitching into another involuntary smirk, tossing the axe to the ground. His hands moved automatically, gathering the freshly split wood into a crooked pile against his side, his body still thrumming faintly with Bill’s discontent. “Didn’t mean to get ya all hot and bothered,” he said casually, as if we were throwing the words over his shoulder.

“I’ll be back tonight, my muse,” Ford assured as he straightened, his voice softening just slightly. There was something both teasing and sincere in the way he said it.

“Tonight?” Bill whined, drawing out the word. “That’s ages from now,” There was something so absurdly theatrical about the way Bill said it—just enough genuine disappointment to make Ford laugh.

There was a flicker of something—pride, maybe—in the way Bill wanted him back so badly, enough to whine about it, enough to make it obvious. It made the cold feel less harsh, the ache in his fingers less sharp, though it didn’t take away the fact that he was still soaked to the skin, still trudging through snowdrifts, still carrying the weight of the morning on his back. But at least the weight wasn’t entirely his own.

“I owe you one,” he replied, the words coming so easily that he was startled by them. He still wasn’t used to this—being wanted so openly, so insistently. And yet, there was something oddly comforting about the way Bill’s voice lingered in him, clung to him. “Besides, I have an opportunity to do some important work today and I don’t want to waste it.”

Ford made his way back to the cabin, his boots crunching through the frozen trail he’d carved moments earlier. The cold was sharper now, slicing through the damp layers of his clothes as the wind picked up, but he barely felt it. His attention snagged on the glow of the cabin window, the pale light spilling outward into the muted dawn. He stopped mid-step, his breath curling in thick clouds around him as his eyes fixed on a silhouette behind the glass. Fidds.

Ford hesitated, his chest tightening as the memory of the night before clawed its way to the surface. Now, in the quiet clarity of the freezing air, guilt settled over him like a second coat—heavier, harder to shrug off. The argument had been building for weeks, months maybe, and he’d let it erupt with all the finesse of a wrecking ball. He’d meant his words, of course, but the way they’d spilled out of him—raw and cutting—still gnawed at the edges of his conscience.

His gaze dropped to himself, to the sorry state he was in: his soaked pajama pants, his coat streaked with ice and snow, the too-thin sweater clinging to his shoulders. He looked every bit the fool—unprepared, disheveled, and as unfit for the tasks he assigned himself as he felt for the role he had taken in Fidds’ life. A leader, a necessary presence, but never—not truly—a good one.

When Ford looked up again, Fidds was still there, his face indistinct but unmistakably turned toward him. Ford hesitated, unsure of how to bridge the chasm the argument had left between them. Slowly, awkwardly, he raised a hand, his fingers unfurling into a still wave.

To his surprise, Fidds waved back. Not a perfunctory gesture, but a loose, almost comical motion—his hand whipping side to side as if it really were nothing, as if the night before had evaporated like smoke.

The sight of it made Ford’s guilt twist tighter, sharper. Fidds’ ability to endure him, to forgive him without hesitation, even after all these years, felt like a kindness Ford hadn’t earned. He stood there, the cold biting at his exposed skin, and let the weight of it settle. What he had said came from an honest place. Fidds’ divided focus—the impossible balance he tried to strike between this life and his family back in Tennessee—had always been a quiet strain between them. It was unsustainable; they both knew it. But Ford also knew that withholding certain truths—from the repressed to outright unbelievable—about himself, about why he pushed so hard, what they were doing, was its own kind of cruelty.

Fidds’ silhouette shifted, his hand falling back to his side as he turned away. Ford exhaled and started forward again, the cold seeping deeper into him with each step, but not quite enough to numb what churned inside him. As the cabin loomed closer, so did the ache—knowing that when he stepped inside, Fidds wouldn’t bring up what had passed between them. He never did. And that silence would be both a relief and a condemnation.

Once Fidds turned away from the window, Ford pressed on, trudging the last few steps towards his goal. He rounded the side of the cabin, where the furnace sat just as he’d left it. The effort from earlier had cleared some of the space around it, though not enough to spare his knees from sinking into the icy ground as he knelt in front of the metal door. The furnace’s breath was warm, a faint orange glow seeping out into the blue-gray of the morning.

The embers inside flared faintly in response to the rush of oxygen, their glow catching on the soaked leather of his boots and the damp fabric of his pants. Ford reached for the split logs tucked under his arm, watching them tumble and settle on the glowing embers of the two he’d placed earlier. Ford grabbed the poker, stirring the pile until the fire roared back to life.

He leaned closer to catch some of the warmth before shutting the furnace door with a decisive clang, sealing the fire inside. He stood abruptly, brushing snow from his knees as he turned toward the front door of the cabin, grateful the ordeal was finally over.

The front door burst open, and Ford stumbled inside, trailing chaos in his wake. He looked like something out of an old cartoon, caked head to toe in a haphazard layering of melted and refrozen snow, chunks of it tumbling to the hardwood floor as he stomped and shook himself off. His boots came first, stiff with ice, and he pried them loose with impatient fingers. Relief swept through him the moment his pruned, frozen feet met the warmth cycling through the vents along the baseboards.

Next came his coat, heavy and sodden, the fabric stiff as he wrestled it off and flung it onto the hook by the door. He ruffled his fingers through his hair, sending a careless spray of ice pellets onto the floorboards and along the walls. He eyed his pajama pants—soaked through and clinging to his skin—and considered stripping them right there. But then his gaze flicked toward the couch in the living room, and he caught sight of Fidds sitting there by candlelight, bent over something in his lap.

With a small sigh, Ford resigned himself to tolerating the damp fabric a little longer. He adjusted the waistband, trying to keep it from sticking, and carefully stepped into the living room, feeling oddly self-conscious about his approach.

“Hey,” Ford said, his voice tentative as he came to a stop near the entryway.

Fidds looked up at him, his face breaking into a smile that was warm and easy, seemingly unbothered by the tension. “Hey,” he said back, his tone light, his hands still fidgeting with whatever he had in his lap.

“Cold one this morning, huh?” Fidds continued, gesturing vaguely toward the window. “Don’t worry, I’ll take the second shift. Should’ve probably thought to stock the log pile before the storm, but, you know…”

“Yeah,” Ford replied with a breathy chuckle, his voice carrying a hint of relief that Fidds wasn’t dwelling on their argument—or worse, acting distant because of it. He leaned against the archway, picking at the ice still caught beneath his nails. “Labs gonna be out of commission until the power’s back, so…” he trailed off, shrugging. “Guess we take it easy until then.”

Fidds nodded, looking out the window for a moment before his gaze flicked back to Ford. “Way ahead of you. Could use a little down time.” His tone was light, but Ford couldn’t help but wonder if there was something unspoken beneath it, some trace of the frustration or resentment.

Ford shifted on his feet, glancing around the room, searching for something to fill the space between them. But Fidds didn’t seem bothered by the silence, didn’t seem to hold the same weight Ford felt pressing down on him. And so Ford let it hang there, just for a moment longer, before exhaling and turning his attention to the window.

“Yeah,” Ford said again, softer this time, the word settling between them like a tentative truce. He shifted, pushing off the wall and moving toward the back of the house. As he reached the next doorway, his hand brushing the frame, he stopped. The words had been circling his mind all morning, lingering in the space between his thoughts. Before he could second-guess himself, he cleared his throat. “Hey, Fid?” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

Fidds tilted his head back up toward Ford. “Hm?” he hummed, his tone casual, but his face attentive.

Ford hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line as he searched for the right way to say it. But there was no clever phrasing, no way to soften it. He pressed his palm flat against the doorframe, chewing his lip as he let the truth tumble out.

“For what it’s worth,” Ford said, his voice quieter now, almost shy, “I… I am really happy to have you here.”

There was a brief silence and Fidds’ face shifted, his expression softening into something unguarded. At first, there was confusion—his brows knit together slightly, his lips parting in surprise. But as the statement settled, the confusion melted away, replaced by a quiet understanding, and acceptance.

Fidds smiled, small and warm, his eyes shining faintly in the low light of the room. “Thanks, Ford,” he said simply, the sincerity in his voice unmistakable. “Happy to be here.”

Ford nodded, the motion brisk but not dismissive, and turned toward his room. He didn’t look back, leaving the moment of vulnerable kindness behind him.

—

Ford sat at the small, cluttered desk in his bedroom, the surface illuminated by the faint, uneven glow of a single candlestick. Beside him, a heap of discarded clothes sat in a darkening puddle, the melted snow soaking into the floorboards—but he paid it no mind. He had meant to dress properly, but somewhere between drying off and pulling on a fresh pair of socks, his mind had wandered back to the problem—the problem—and so he had settled for his robe, its belt loosely knotted in his haste.

He sat back in his chair, one arm folded across his chest, bracing him, while the other held the cigarette that he brought to his lips every so often, the motion automatic, thoughtless. His eyes stayed fixed on the pages scattered in front of him—a chaotic sprawl of calculations, half-erased corrections, and stubborn variables. The lines of ink seemed to ripple under the wavering light, teasing him with a logic just out of reach. He rolled the cigarette’s filter absently across his lower lip, his gaze moving methodically across the mess, chasing the elusive marriage of quantum uncertainty and the deterministic fabric of spacetime.

The room was silent save for the murmur of the wind beyond the walls, the sporadic cracks of the cabin settling, and the faint creak of his chair whenever he shifted—and at the center of it all lay the same section he always got stuck on. Ford’s gaze remained fixed, unwavering, locked on the chaotic intersection of manifolds where everything refused—stubbornly—to stabilize. It infuriated him. No matter which way he approached it—how he twisted the problem in his mind, how many frameworks he imposed—there was always a fundamental inconsistency. The boundary conditions wouldn’t align, the intersections of the manifolds dissolving into gibberish the moment he accounted for higher-dimensional variances.

He leaned back in his chair, tipping his head slightly and closing his eyes, willing himself to tune in to the discordant melody. Each thread of logic rose like an arpeggio, only to falter on a sour, dissonant note—a jarring inconsistency that set his teeth on edge. It was maddening. How close it seemed, yet so wholly unattainable. He had worked through every known theorem, reshaped all assumptions until they bent and splintered under their own weight, but the fundamental incompatibilities remained, mocking him.

“So,” Bill’s voice came sardonically. “This must be the very important work that's got you wrapped up today?”

“Hush,” Ford droned passively. His brow knit tighter as he leaned over the desk, the faint glow of the candlelight catching the sharp angles of his face. He bent closer to the page, his eyes narrowing as they traced the jagged trail of calculations. His hand tightened around the pen before he scrawled several adjustments to the coordinate mapping, attempting a new configuration for stabilizing the intersection space. The cigarette bobbed faintly between his lips as he wrote, his fingers threatening through his hair. For a fleeting moment, he thought he might have it—but the variables unraveled almost immediately, collapsing the sequence once again.

Ford cursed under his breath, tossing the pen onto the desk. It rolled and clattered to the edge, but he didn’t move to retrieve it. Instead, he sank back into his chair again, taking a long drag and holding the smoke in his lungs for a beat before releasing it slowly through his nose. The bitterness of it lingered, cutting through the heavy air, but it did little to soothe that familiar frustration twisting in his gut.

The cigarette burned down to its final length and he stubbed it out in the ashtray with a sharp, almost violent motion as his other hand reached for his pen, moving absently across the desk. But in his distraction, he clipped the edge of the candleholder. It toppled to the floor with a dull clang, the flame extinguished as hot wax splattered across his hand and then bare foot. Ford jerked back instinctively, a sharp hiss escaping his teeth. “Fuck!” he barked, shaking his hand to soothe the sting. He looked down, grimacing at the red streak of quickly drying wax on the top of his foot. “Fuckin’ klutz—can’t catch a break today,” he muttered under his breath, swiping his hand over the mess.

Before he could move to retrieve the fallen candleholder, something stirred—a sizzling sensation that started in his chest. Subtle at first, then spreading outward, tendrils of heat creeping through his arms, reaching all the way to his fingertips.

The next moment, his arm twitched, moving of its own accord. Ford gasped, his body shifting forward as if pulled by an invisible string, his hand darting down to seize the candlestick off the floor. “Bill—hey!” he sputtered, his voice caught between surprise and frustration as the rest of his body followed the motion, bringing him to an awkward crouch.

Ford’s grip tightened involuntarily as he stared at the candle now clutched in his right hand, a familiar golden glow flashing faintly at the edges of his vision. “What are you doing?” he asked impatiently.

“Relax, Foureyes,” came the drawl, curling into his ears with a lazy sort of ease, syrupy and smug. “You’ve piqued my curiosity. That’s all.”

Ford exhaled harshly, the sound halfway between a sigh and a growl. “Cut it out,” he snapped, trying to shake his arm as though he could dislodge the presence clinging to him. His fingers twitched slightly, but ultimately nothing budged. Then, without warning, his left hand moved—smoothly, deliberately, in a motion that wasn’t his own. It smacked down onto a pack of matches, dragging them across the desk toward him. “Bill!”

“What an invigorating feeling,” Bill mused, ignoring Ford, his tone light, playful. “Gave you a little jump, too, didn't it?”

“It was an accident,” Ford said stiffly.

“An accident.” Bill’s voice tilted slyly, the amusement laced with something darker. “Sure. Just like this morning was an accident, right?”

Ford chuckled, though the sound was tight, forced. “Still hung up on that, are you?” he retorted, shaking his head. “So, what now? A game of keep-away?”

“Actually, I was thinking payback.” he purred, striking a match using Ford’s hands. “After everything you’ve pulled today. Even now, Parading yourself around like that—awfully reckless.”

Ford swallowed, caught for a moment on the flame dancing on the tip of the match, recognizing the mischief in Bill’s tone—he wasn’t sure how to feel about where this was going. “B-Bill, come on—“

“What is the correct configuration for this equation, Ford?” Bill’s voice slid through the air, unhurried, a velvet tease that carried the sharp edge of expectation. The wick caught with a soft hiss, and the candle sprang to life, casting a flickering halo of gold across the dim room. It wasn’t just a question; it was a declaration, a challenge. Ford’s breath faltered, his gaze snagging on the molten pool of wax gathering at the base of the candle’s flame, but it wasn’t the light that held him—It was the implication. Bill wanted to play a game, and Ford knew better than to resist.

“Integrate over the boundary,” Ford started, his tone clipped, almost defensive, as if he could beat Bill at his own game. “Applied to wave functions, t minus x over y… second derivative with respect to x over…” He paused, the equation fracturing in his mind, its symmetry teasing him with infinite possibilities. There was a solution, he knew that, but it hovered just out of reach.

“Careful,” Bill murmured, his tone rich with a satisfaction that prickled at Ford’s fraying composure. “This approach is… naive at best.”

“Let me think,” Ford snapped, his voice tight, his patience thinner than he wanted it to be. “Second derivative with respect to x over y—ow!” His yelp broke as the first splash of wax hit his forearm, dripping down the crook of his elbow.

Bill made a soft, disapproving sound, his tongue clicking against his teeth. “No, I don’t think that’s right,” he drawled, giving Ford just enough space to stew on the sting. “Your denominator collapsed. Give it another shot, Specs.”

Ford stiffened as Bill guided his left hand to the collar of his robe, tugging it loose and baring more of his chest. His heart thudded against his ribs, but he pressed forward, unwilling to give Bill the satisfaction of watching him falter. “With respect to t…wait, no—” His words fractured into a gasp as the wax splattered across his skin again, this time at the hollow of his chest.

“See it now?” Bill murmured.

To his own surprise, he did. The tension that knotted his mind unraveled in that rush, the segment snapping into focus with an almost blinding clarity, the solution unfurling before him like a revelation. Bill was right—Ford’s approach had been off all along.

“A Ricci scalar should account for curvature,” Ford said, barely registering where his hand moved next until his fingers brushed against the fabric that draped over his leg. His grip tightened around the soft material and began to draw it aside, inch by inch, exposing more of his skin.

“You think that’ll settle the variances?” Bill’s voice came, smooth and sharp, slicing cleanly through the fractals spinning in Ford’s mind. The faintest hint of amusement curled at the edges of his words, a challenge as much as it was an invitation. “Let’s see it.”

Ford shivered a bit, the equation forming as Bill guided his hand in slow, deliberate circles over the bare skin of his thigh. The soft, repetitive motion grounded him just enough to keep him speaking, though his nerves sparked with every flicker of the candle still clutched in his other hand. “Delta squared times the wave function plus… R squ—”

He never finished. The movement came swift and precise, a tilt of the wrist, and then the wax spilled in a molten arc across the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. The sound he made—a low, strangled thing, trapped somewhere between a whimper and a groan—scraped raw against the back of his throat as it escaped, his hips jerking forward on reflex, twitching slightly, the cotton of the robe dragging against him in maddening ways as he tried to catch his breath.

“It’s better,” Bill remarked, his voice cool, calm, infuriating in its composure. “The geometry’s right this time, but you’re missing the higher-order effects entirely.”

Ford’s lips parted, his breath a trembling exhale as he fought to regain his footing, though the ground beneath him felt hopelessly unsteady. His body shifted, the robe slipping from one shoulder and pooling at his side to reveal flushed skin that glistened faintly in the candlelight. He felt feverish, caught in the crossfire of the numbers and symbols cycling wildly in his mind, and the weight of Bill’s presence, pressing in from every direction, suffocating in its intensity.

“Go on, Sixer,” Bill coaxed, his tone dark and velvet-smooth, laced with a quiet edge of danger. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Ford’s back arched sharply, a reflexive movement that sent the chair beneath him creaking in protest as the wax spilled again. This time, it landed on the sensitive peak of his nipple, the pain searing and immediate. His cry rang out, the sound cracking halfway through as his body twisted instinctively. “Bill, please—”

“Ah-ah.” Bill’s voice sliced through the plea. “No begging,” he said, the words curling around Ford with an unnerving intimacy, as if Bill’s mouth were right against his ear. “You’ll take it until you get it right.”

Ford’s breath hitched. “And if I can’t?” he asked, his voice trembling with something closer to a confession than a challenge, as if he were admitting the fragility of his resolve, the limits he knew he couldn’t surpass. But the candle tilted again anyway, wax splattered onto his other nipple. The pain bloomed bright and sharp, stealing the air from his lungs. His body twisted, but the chair held him fast, leaving him nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.

Bill’s laughter followed—a low, rich sound that crackled through Ford’s mind like a spark catching dry tinder. It was electric, laced with wicked delight. “Then I guess you’re in for a long night,” He replied, his tone almost gleeful in his certainty. His voice dropped lower, rougher now, steeped in a dark encouragement. “Come on, Fordsy,” he commanded. “Show me those genius calculations you’re so proud of.”

Ford’s mind was a battlefield of fragmented thoughts, each searing jolt scattering variables across his vision like shattering glass. Bill held him in that agonizing balance—a pressure sharp enough to keep him off-center, deliberate in its timing, as if he wanted him to stumble, anticipating every misalignment.

Ford began again, his voice brittle at the edges, catching on the syllables. “I-Integral over the manifold boundary, uh… Laplace-Beltrami times wave function minus—”

The words dissolved into a fractured gasp, the equation crumbling in his mind as another drop of wax fell scalding the tender skin at his ribs. He knew better—knew the boundary was unstable, the solution already flawed. His breath hitched in stuttering bursts, the words slipping through his grasp as he twisted against the invisible force holding his arms in place, instinct clawing at reason.

“Stop squirming, Sixer,” Bill mused, his voice curling through Ford’s mind like smoke, clinging like tar, each word suffused with lazy dominance. “You’ll only make it harder for yourself.”

Ford swallowed hard, his belly heaving with each uneven breath. The tension twisted in his gut, filling every space, crowding out thought until there was only the unbearable awareness of Bill’s control—unyielding, absolute. “My muse—this isn’t—”

“Isn’t what?” Bill cut him off sharply, his tone edged with venomous amusement. “Isn’t exactly what you deserve? Don’t sell yourself short, Foureyes. You’ve been difficult today.”

A shiver rippled through Ford as his free hand began to move again, driven by that unseen thread. It skimmed over his chest, grazing the throbbing planes of skin where the wax had burned him. The touch was cruel in its softness, a deliberate contrast to the sharp sting of heat, leaving his muscles twitching in its wake—Bill savored every reaction, drinking them in like a predator toying with its prey.

“Your variances are aligned,” Bill continued. “But they’ll collapse under feedback, and you know it.” He paused, letting the silence stretch, heavy with expectation. “You need a stabilizing factor. Think, Ford.”

Ford’s chest heaved against the invisible weight pinning him, his breaths shallow and ragged. “I—I’m trying,” he managed, the words tumbling out in desperation. “But the fluctuations won’t adjust!” His voice cracked on the last syllable, rising into a tremble as the candle in his hand tipped again, spilling the wax lower on his stomach.

“O-Okay, okay…” Ford heaved. “What if… we converge the wave function, um… account for density and a higher-order derivative—” The sentence shattered on a strangled cry as molten wax cascaded onto his other thigh. The pain hit hard, chasing a line of fire across his skin. Ford’s head fell back, his groans dragging from his throat with each labored breath, every sound torn from him by force.

“You’re neglecting the dynamics between intersections,” Bill teased, the mirth in his tone palpable.

Ford thighs pressing together in an attempt to soothe the mounting ache between them. It was humiliating, the way he lost control so easily, how his body trembled, his teeth sinking into his lower lip so hard he thought he might draw blood. Bill commanded his left hand, hovering over the knot at his waist—the last fragile barrier concealing his modesty. “Here, let me give you a hand,” Bill purred, and Ford felt his fingers move, puppeteered by Bill’s will. Slowly, almost agonizingly, the knot began to loosen, the fabric slackening with the pull.

“My muse…” Ford rasped.

“Come on, Sixer,” Bill said, his voice low, teasing, but laced with a quiet authority that rooted Ford to the spot. “We’re not even at the hard part yet.” he murmured, a note of mockery hidden beneath the practiced nonchalance, as though the equation was an afterthought, a lull in the storm. The knot gave way and Ford could feel the faint pull of gravity as the fabric slipped, the front of his robe parting completely.

He flinched instinctively, his chest heaving as the cool air hit all of his skin. He couldn’t bear to look down, but he knew what Bill could see: the streaks of red wax marring his body like careless brushstrokes, clinging to the hairs where it dried, but the real attraction was further down. His cock—stiff and glistening—pulsed against his stomach, a thin line of precum already smeared along his skin.

Bill gasped dramatically and laughed, and the sound was almost guttural, cutting through the tension with a jagged edge. “Look at you! Naughty boy.” he teased. His tone was biting, laced with that hunger that made Ford’s throat tighten. “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?”

Ford shivered, his cock twitching at Bill’s attention. He wanted to argue, to snap back with some clever retort—but Bill was right. Every stinging drop of wax, every biting word—The degradation of it all. It didn't help that his indulgences had been exclusively confined to dreams as of late, leaving his waking body untouched, neglected and sensitive—Now, he was paying for that oversight.

“Account for behavior of spacetime feedback,” Ford muttered, giving himself a moment to steady his breathing, desperately trying to ignore the wiry pulse of arousal. His voice was shaky, the words a struggle. But then, as though from the depths of that chaos, another burst of clarity emerged—like a splinter of light through the fog. An angle he hadn’t seen before, a piece of the puzzle slipping into place. “A Lagrangian density should be introduced to the second-order.”

“Interesting,” Bill responded, the word dripping with amusement, as though Ford had finally begun to entertain him. He didn’t let Ford’s hand rest for long. Without warning, he began to guide it downward, slowly, torturously, toward the aching length of Ford’s cock. “Elaborate,”

Ford’s mind fought to stay tethered to the equation, even as his thoughts became more fragmented, more feverish with each movement. He tried to push the rising tide of arousal back, willing himself to focus on the numbers, the logic, the safety of equations. But his body rebelled, a distant hum of need making it impossible to ignore the way that touch moved with him, guiding him, controlling him.

“Integral over M…” He pressed on, his voice shaky, desperate for the relief that the right answer might bring. The words came in broken bursts, each one a small victory against the overwhelming pull of desire that was clouding his mind. “Accounting for energy-momentum interactions”

Bill’s breath caught slightly, intrigued. “And that would be?” he asked, hanging on the sequence as it came together.

Ford’s eyes flickered to the candle still hovering over him, but they were drawn back to his other hand as it continued its descent. A shallow gasp left his lips when his fingers slipped below his abdomen. His hips tilted up against it, moaning lightly as it caressed the sensitive skin around his twitching cock. “F-Fuck, uhm…That would be…g root μv..?”

Bill hummed, letting Ford hang for just a moment. “That would make the slope curve too soon.” He said simply before he pulled the hand away and tilted the candle, letting the wax fall just where it had just been teasing him. Ford’s grunt was involuntary, his body arching and shuddering as the molten heat collided with his skin. His breath hitched, his chest heaving. He was so close—so close to losing it. “It’s unstable under perturbations. Run it again,” Bill commanded, his voice unwavering.

Ford whined, sweat beginning to bead on his skin, his abdomen tight with the need to finish. He wriggled slightly in his seat, his mind scrambling as his thoughts threatened to scatter. “Account for interplay between energy and momentum—” He gasped, his entire body jerking when the wax hit his skin again, hotter this time, a searing trail down his thigh. “A-And curvature…” he stuttered, the addition slipping from his mouth.

“That’s it.” Bill whispered.

“Assuming energy-momentum is equal to—to…” Ford trailed off, his eyes rolling back when Bill made his hand wrap around his cock. “O-Oh, Bill…” he gasped, his hips bucking up into his grasp. The calculations blurred and swirled in his mind. His lips quivered before he spoke again. “Partial M over nabila squared…”

Bill’s voice was a low, approving purr. “There you go. You’re doing beautifully, Ford. Keep going.”

“Lambasa η over delta v…” Ford muttered, brows drawn together as Bill made him stroke himself, coaxing another series of soft moans from his lips. The equation felt close now, just out of reach, but the pressure was building, suffocatingly so.

“Yes.” Bill encouraged. “Keep the parameters tight.”

“P-Partial root zeta sq-squared over wave function—” Ford choked and sobbed when the wax hit the base of his cock, its heat trailing down with the force of gravity.

“Those terms are out of order. Do it again.” Bill commanded, his tone a velvet whip.

“Partial over w-wave function squared…” but as it left his lips, he knew he’d mixed up the signs. “W-Wait—aha!” His voice cracked, it was too late. More wax hit the same spot, igniting a fire inside him, sweat dripping down his body in rivulets as his hand jerked faster.

“Again.” Bill growled.

“Delta o-over wave function, zeta minus g—” His head fell back, eyes fluttering closed, chanting the numbers into the air with a desperate fervor. Bill focused the wax exclusively between Ford’s legs now, spilling it with every spoken string that led to a collapse of the manifold. Now, Ford's body trembled so hard the chair legs chattered on the floor beneath him, shaking and wobbling as every possibility for the equation burst behind his eyelids like fireworks.

Around and around they went, running the sequence. Ford had unraveled completely, lost in the rhythm of the equation and the searing pain that accompanied it. A writhing mess of flesh and mind, caught between brilliance and madness, at the mercy of his own desires. They danced, a twisted duet, drawn out by the pull of science and the desperate need to push Ford past his breaking point—everything was a test, a trial to determine which would break first; him or the math.

Then he felt it—a faint brush of heat—a disembodied tongue dragging languidly up the curve of his ear, leaving a slick trail of sensation behind as the feeling of more hands curled around his legs, holding him steady. “You’re so close.” Bill purred, his phantom hands sliding upward, dragging tortuously along the trembling muscles of Ford’s thighs. Ford choked on a sob, his body shaking, and Bill’s touch added to the torture, feeling like a brand on his skin. “Partial over what? Come on, Ford.”

Ford’s gasp tore from his throat. “Partial over… partial… part—“ He trailed off. “Oh g-god…” he breathed as the candle tilted one last time. The wax spilled in a hot, unrelenting wave, splashing across his skin, the sting tipping him over the edge. His back arched violently, his body convulsing, each nerve firing at once.

“Finish it.”

“D-Delta! Delta—delta!” Ford’s mind fractured as he repeated himself, the words coming out in frantic gasps, each one punctuated by his body’s violent spasms. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t control it any longer. His body jerked in the chair, hot ropes of his release shooting across his chest and down his stomach, the pleasure and pain blurring into one excruciating mix, his body spasming in the chair as he shouted in broken cries.

“Good boy, very good boy…” Bill murmured into Ford’s ear, his vaporous hands bracing Ford’s trembling body. Ford’s head spun, the intensity of the release washing over him in waves, leaving him breathless. His unfocused eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, lips moving in broken murmurs, caught in the lingering rhythm of what had just unraveled. Bill’s simulated touch ghosted along his sides, feather-light, grounding him as he spiraled downward, his body twitching in the aftermath. “That was it, Sixer. You got it,” Bill whispered, the approval in his voice warm, indulgent.

Ford slumped against the chair, his muscles giving way as the tension ebbed out of him completely. His arms fall loose at his sides, heavy with exhaustion as Bill releases his hold over them. The candle, now forgotten, tumbled to the floor with a faint clatter, its flame sputtering out, plunging the room back into darkness. Ford shivered uncontrollably, his body fighting to readjust to the silence, to the absence of that searing heat.

Bill’s hands remained steady, ghostlike fingers dragging along Ford’s sides in soft, soothing strokes. The sensation was a maddeningly tender contrast to the torment he had so carefully inflicted. “Bill…” Ford finally croaked, his voice rough and barely audible, as though dredged up from the depths of him.

“Shh, Sixer, it’s alright.” Bill’s voice was soft, affectionate, and it wrapped around Ford like a blanket. Ford leaned weakly into the comforting sensation, the words echoing in his mind, pulling at the thin threads of his thoughts. He let them settle, let the quiet praise anchor him as he returned to awareness.

“Don’t think this means you’re off the hook for tonight.” Bill teased after a moment. “Now, you owe me two.”

Ford chuckled lightly, a lazy smile spreading over his face, reaching his tired, half-lidded eye.. “Yes, my muse.”

#billford nation #how we feeling after this one?#had covid all last week and wrote most of this while fighting sleep off cough syrup #so the shadow man is technically the cowriter #and man #that guy is a freak!#billford #stanford pines #bill cipher #gravity falls #covenants and other provisions #billford fanfic #my writing

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