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It was really quite a peaceful evening. Though, all evenings seemed peaceful with Fiddleford at his side. They were sat at the edge of Fidd’s bed, knees only a few feet away from the mattress gathering a layer of dust amidst a backdrop of beige and intellectual idols. Ford had been finding himself in Fiddleford’s bed quite a lot lately. Well, frequently, it seemed. Anytime he wasn’t away from the dorm or studiously hunched over the desk at the foot of his bed, actually. Technically, that last location was where he was supposed to be right then, though they’d each reasoned they could afford a little distraction if said distraction was each other.
Stanford could swear Fiddleford was glowing, easily explicable by the final rays of the setting sun seeping through the blinds . . . but he would have believed there was some beautiful oddity nestling in Fiddleford allowing the sheer radiance of his spirit to manifest in the physical plane and leave him all the more stunned. Joy, curiosity, brilliance, all packaged into one man who’d captured his attention the moment he spoke up in class. He’d always been eager to listen to Fiddleford since, whatever he had to say. Whether it was stories, a turn of phrase, an idea—he always found it interesting. Though in all the ways Fiddleford had held his interest, he had never been quite so interested than when he filled the short silence with:
“You know, I ain’t ever been kissed?”
Ford’s brows shot up at that, gaze turning from a bed he was forgetting the feel of to the hunching man he’d been dreaming of kissing. Since before they’d started . . . Whatever it was they were doing. He was gazing right back, pinching his lip between his teeth, waiting for Stanford’s response. “Really?”
Something in Fidd’s eyes softened as Ford’s ears perked and cheeks grew pink. “Yeah.” He chuckled, scooting a little closer on the bed and letting his hand drape just over the edge of Ford’s. “Really.”
Even with all the comfort and familiarity he’d experienced, Fidd still had a tendency to send his heart fluttering whenever they made the slightest bit of contact. It was like an arrow shot through his spine when Fiddleford trailed slender fingers along his own, his posture beyond its usual propriety, as if a want to impress mingled into an already overwhelming physiological response. He licked his lips, considering the odd balance of nerves, excitement, and confidence in Fidd’s demeanor. Precious blue eyes wide and scanning. Thigh grazing against Stanford’s as his knee bounced beyond his own. His smile was a little crooked, but oh-so-genuine, oh-so-Fiddleford, holding all the same qualities Stanford failed to find words for the first time their fingers slipped together—and, more recently, when they woke up so entangled, they weren’t quite sure who was holding who. He hoped to help ease his nerves. “I’ve never kissed another person.”
The shift in Fiddleford’s face was immediate, brows furrowing so hard he started to squint. His smile became a breathy laugh. “What the heck does that mean?”
Stanford hadn’t considered that avenue of conversation. His eyes snapped towards his poster of Sagan. “I—ah, I’ve never kissed anyone, either.”
“No, no—” Fiddleford laughed, Stanford’s intentions clearly realized as Fidd reached across his lap to claim both hands. “You elaborate.”
His eyes flicked back to Fiddleford, and, as per usual, the contentment, care, and what must have been adoration made him want to share, despite the embarrassment. “It’s silly.”
Fiddleford shrugged. “Reckon we both are.”
Stanford chuckled then bit his lip. “I—” He sighed, then took a breath, eyes squeezing shut in preparation to spit out, quick as he could, “Alright, I was nervous about prom, so I invented a kissing robot to gain experience in case I ended up . . . needing said experience.”
When he heard no ridicule, he looked up, brows raising as he gauged Fiddleford’s reaction: eyes lidded, a corner of his mustache lifting . . . It was . . . dreamy?
“You ain’t ever mentioned dabbling in robotics, Stanford.”
Ford raised a brow and scoffed at the flirtation in his cadence. “I wasn’t particularly proud of it, Fiddleford.” He shook his head, chest puffing under an admiring gaze. “I destroyed it after a mortifying experience in gym.”
“You brought it to school?”
The chuckle was endearing, though the question itself just made the memory all the more vivid. Ford’s eyes found the windowsill. “Not one of my brightest moments.”
Fiddleford was scooting closer, so his shoulder pressed against Ford’s. “And you never got to . . . you know . . .”
Ford tilted his head.
“Test it?”
He was still for a moment, then shook his head, before he found himself turning at the guidance of Fiddleford's palm. Upon Fidd’s face was a timid smile toying with the concept of daring. “So I guess there’s only one way for us to see if it worked, huh?”
In hindsight, Stanford felt he should have anticipated a proposition for a kiss. As it were, he found himself wide eyed, hoping the moisture at his brow wouldn’t bead and drip its way to Fidd’s wrist. He gulped, then nodded slowly. “Correct.”
Fiddleford’s eyes flicked away for a moment, biting his lip before finding his way back to Ford. “Would, uh—” He cleared his throat. “Would you like to see now?”
Stanford nodded again, much faster, already leaning in towards Fiddleford. “I’d like that very much.”
“Me, too.” Fiddleford’s breath was shaky.
They were excited, trembling hands grabbing at each other’s shoulders and offering one more shy smile before closing their eyes. Stanford felt a rush of adrenaline, a burst of emotion, and all he wanted was to finally translate his dreams to reality. So he rushed in towards him, and it was clear Fiddleford had made the same decision when they crashed into each other with a yelp.
They hadn’t quite made it to target, the consequences of excitement taking effect as their hands rushed to their noses.
“Shit, I’m sorry Ford!” His voice was muffled, though the embarrassment in his eyes certainly wasn’t.
Stanford chuckled, rubbing the point of impact before allowing his hand to fall. “It’s alright, just—” He reached out, cupping Fiddleford’s jaw—then he was blushing just as deeply. The dull pain in his face seemed quite distant with Fidd’s warm skin in his hand. He could feel Fidd shaking, if only slightly; he hadn’t expected to have the same effect on Fiddleford as Fiddleford had on him. “Try tilting your head?”
Fiddleford nodded, eyes dazed as he heeded Ford’s advice and leaned into his palm. “Now what?”
Ford felt his own shiver fading, or perhaps he was just ignoring it in favor of Fiddleford’s pink lips parting and the little breath escaping when his thumb ran across his cheek. He tilted his head the opposite way. “Now we, ah—”
He gently brought their lips together, a sharp inhale the last thing they heard before being enveloped in booming silence. It felt like the world stopped, like nothing else could possibly exist but him and Fiddleford. It was softness and pressure, so tender yet so firm, so present. He kept them simply pressed for a moment, till he finally remembered how to breathe, and his lips parted to glide along Fiddleford’s. Long, slender fingers slid into his sideburns, and a noise he didn’t recognize escaped when Fiddleford clumsily followed his lead. He kept his pace slow, allotting Fiddleford the time to adapt, to keep track of how Ford moved, how to respond, how to quicken, how to slow.
He’d happily give him forever to learn. While the bot had allowed Stanford to develop technique, it could never have prepared him for how wonderful it felt to be kissed back—and to be kissed back by Fiddleford, no less. To feel the bristles of his mustache tickle his upper lip. Or the nervous quiver in his lips as he dragged them over Ford's. The beautiful silence that had held them welcomed the rustling of clothes as they pressed closer together, hands wandering to necks and waists. Soft, wet smacks and their deep breaths claimed the air, urging them to lose themselves for what could only be moments, but felt like the most blissful introduction to forever.
Stanford kept his eyes closed for a moment when they parted, flicking his tongue to catch the lingering taste of smoke and cola before flashing his gaze up with a flutter in his chest. “How was—”
“Wow.” Fiddleford breathed, and Ford swore the other sounded lighter than air as he swayed just so. His eyes were lidded, as if he was trying to hang on to a half-dream state enabling the wonders of what they’d just experienced. It seemed there was a permanent smile on his face, the corners of his lips not only hiding beneath but pushing his mustache towards radiant cheekbones.
“W-Wow?” Stanford laughed, bowing his head only the slightest—though even nerves couldn't stop Ford beaming back up at him. I got a “wow.”
“Yeah. Wow.” His chuckle was little more than a shaky exhale, still looking at Stanford with a cast of wonder. “You wanna kiss some more?
Stanford nodded eagerly, before rushing right back into Fiddleford’s arms to lose himself in the curious mapping of mouths once more.
Their lips were raw when they finally stopped, smiles wide and eyes sparkling. Stanford looked radiant under the light of the moon, streams of silver bouncing off the curls falling in his face, reflecting off his glasses to let shine the depths of his eyes, ever so peaceful gazing back at Fidd from the comfort of his pillow. His hands still held his stubbled jaw as he drank in the sight of him, studying a deepened sense of peace that seemed to come with their new connection. He let his thumb graze along his face as his eyes wandered, cringing to himself when he saw how red he’d left the space between his nose and upper lip.
“Sorry about that.” He blurted when Ford winced at the touch to worn skin. His hand hadn’t made it an inch from his jaw when he felt the weight of Ford’s palm urging him back.
“D-Don’t be.” There was a flickering of hope in his eyes, a silent plea, and the little guilt Fidd felt fled him, replaced instead by warmth when Ford’s face melted in his hands.
“Alright, I’m not, then.” Fiddleford laughed, leaning in for one more kiss. It was just a peck, but it was enough to leave giggles catching in their throats. “At least let me get you something.” He said with a wink.
Ford regretted nodding when he realized that meant Fidd was getting out of bed. He rolled on to his back and sank into the mattress, watching Fiddleford mutter under his breath as he scoured the papers and utensils across his desk. He thought he looked all the more breathtaking under the guise of night, lips still glistening from clumsily teasing tongues, hair sticking every which way from tangling fingers and rustling sheets, bare waist only slightly exposed to leave behind evidence of Ford's curiosity. Stanford was certain he was as much a mess as Fiddleford, confirming so when he looked down to see his own stomach peeking from beneath his vest. He only hoped Fiddleford found him just as beautiful as Ford found him.
“Here we are!” Fiddleford declared, oblivious to the way he’d snapped Ford out of wistful staring when he found a tube of lip balm amidst an array of bitten and worn down pencils. He turned back to Ford only to find himself stricken, the night unable to conceal the flushing of his cheeks as he realized Ford’s lips were so swollen because of him, that already unruly curls had been rendered wild by him, that usually firm pressed clothes were in desperate need of ironing because of him. After a moment of absolute stillness, he finally processed Stanford holding his hand to accept the balm, a crooked smile on his face when he placed it in his palm. “You look real cute.”
It was just above a whisper, but it rang in Ford’s ears louder than a clock tower as he popped the lid off the little tube. “Thank you, Fiddleford.” He chuckled, letting out a soft breath when he felt the relief of the salve. He rubbed his lips together, passing the tube back to Fiddleford just to hear a ‘hang on’ accompanied by Fidd crawling back into bed. The lid popped back off and Ford’s eyes went wide, his breath stopping altogether when Fiddleford’s thumbs massaged more balm just above his upper lip, delicate and soothing. “You’re enchanting.”
Fiddleford breathed out a laugh, watching with sharp eyes as he traced out the shape of Ford’s lips, taking in the shudder that fell when he dragged over soft pink skin parting only so. “Well, ain’t you a charmer?” He teased before tending to his own mouth and finding Stanford’s eyes. “Your bot ever leave you wrecked like this?”
And Stanford knew his blush was just as visible, though embarrassment seemed distant as he laughed out his (lovers?) name. “It—um—no, it didn’t.” He watched Fiddleford lean over to let the balm fall back into his menagerie of writing utensils. “I was never inclined to get so . . . Fervent with it.”
Fiddleford combed the hair from Stanford’s face and snatched up both pairs of glasses. “You saying I’m a good kisser?” He strained as he let them fall together on the desk.
“Oh, absolutely.” And he beamed when he heard another laugh out of Fiddleford, meeting his eyes when his face landed only inches from him.
Fiddleford hummed, pondering the look on Stanford’s face as his hands came to hold him once again. “You’re sweet on me.” He accused, kissing his forehead then his nose.
His eyes fluttered shut with the breath that escaped. “Incredibly so.” He confirmed, trembling hands seeking Fiddleford’s waist.
“Well, good.” Fiddleford chuckled, reveling in the apparent surprise on Stanford’s face when he rolled on to his chest and warm hands gripped him tighter. Bushy brows climbed towards his curls, though a glimmer of fascination shone through a face Fidd only found precious. “You already went and stole my dang heart.”
Then they didn’t really care if their lips stung ever-so-slightly. Any pain simply paled beside the comfort of their kiss, the warmth of their mouths, the incredible spark that had them losing themselves in each other once more.
And if their plans to rise early and study were derailed by the discovery of lazy morning kisses and bare chests pressed together . . . Then a little last minute cramming seemed all the more worth it.