He couldn't sleep.

12:03.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. It repeated in his head like a mantra, over and over.

12:04.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. It wasn't so much his body that was the problem, no. It was his mind.

12:05

Don't cry. Don't cry. Do. Not. Cry. Don't you dare cry, Ford thought. Don't do it. Don't.

12:06.

You can't. He's right there, he'll hear you. He could've sworn the minutes were starting to pass slower.

12:07.

Just stop thinking about Stan, Ford told himself. Just stop thinking about him. I'm sure he's fine. He's fine. He glanced over at clock. Why wasn't it 12:08 yet? It should be 12:08 by now. He silently willed the clock to change, tucking his knees to his chest and letting out a long, slow breath. Don't cry. Stan is okay. Even if he's not, it's not my problem.

Of course it's my problem. It's my fucking fault. I did nothing. I just stood there and did nothing and now he's out on the streets and winter's coming soon and what if his car breaks down and what if he's dea-

No. He's fine, Stanley's fine. Don't worry about Stanley. Don't even think about Stanley.

12:07.

Don't think about Stanley. Don't cry. Don't think about Stanley. Don't cry.

12:07.

Don't think about Stanley. Clear your mind. Go to sleep, goddamnit. He closed his eyes and opened them again.

12:07.

The clock had to be broken. He pushed himself into an upright position and felt his breath hitch in his chest. Why wa- oh. Fuck. No. No, no, no. Those could not be tears running down his cheeks. He was not crying. He couldn't be. Ford sniffled. He wasn't crying. He rubbed at his eyes furiously. Don't cry.

11:19? Wait, what? It was just- he couldn't read the fucking clock. Perhaps he just needed his glasses. His vision couldn't be blurred due to tears, that wasn't possible. He wasn't crying, after all. He fumbled on the bedside table, grasping for his glasses. No, those were not tears brimming in his eyes. His hand finally found them and he slapped them haphazardly onto his face, blinking and blinking and trying to bring the numbers on the display into focus.

He still couldn't tell the time. His face was hot. His vision was swimming. Everything was darkness and shadows and shapes moving on the wall but it was okay because he wasn't crying and he wasn't thinking about Stanley and he wasn't thinking about how the only thing he'd managed to do on his first day here was make an enemy out of the man who he'd have to be living with and he certainly wasn't having a breakdown in the middle of his first night here. Right in front of his roommate. Oh, shit. He wasn't awake, was he? What if he was awake? Ford took a deep, shaking breath and reminded himself that it didn't matter because he wasn't crying.

Fiddleford showed no sign of moving, but his back was toward him, so Ford couldn't tell if he was awake or not. He wondered what Fiddleford would do if he caught him weeping like an infant. Would he tell everybody? Would it matter? They would all think he was a freak anyway, they always did. It wasn't as if he was going to make friends here. He didn't want any friends, right? He didn't need any friends. He didn't need or depend on anybody, especially Stanley, and he never had. He could make it on his own! Yes, everybody hated him. Yes, people were mean and cruel. The bottom line was that they weren't worth wasting his energy on. He was fine. He didn't feel alone or anything of the sort. That was such a pathetic way to feel. Almost as pathetic as crying in the middle of the night, which he was not doing. He wasn't weak and he wasn't a coward and he wasn't scared of people and he wasn't scared of the future and he wasn't scared of failure and he was. Not. Crying.

Fuck. He was crying.

A choked sob escaped him. He covered his mouth with his hands, falling backwards onto his pillow. Stanford cringed at the sound of the squeaky mattress springs absorbing the blow, hoping it wasn't already too late. He gasped and shoved his fingers in his mouth, biting down to muffle the sound of his wheezing and hopefully prevent himself from crying any louder. He clutched the bedsheets with his other hand and took a few shuddering breaths to calm himself. Ford removed his glasses, keeping his eyes shut tight, and set them on the nightstand. In one smooth motion, he flipped himself over, removed his fingers from his mouth, and shoved his face into his pillow.

He spent most of the rest of the night suffocating himself and desperately hoping his loss of control was quiet enough to go undetected.

Ford didn't sleep that night. He rose early and crept out without waking Fiddleford. He trudged from hellish hall to hellish hall to attend his classes, eyes flicking about as he analyzed everything. Sharp remarks flared up in his mind, but he had nobody to complain to but himself. Emotions constantly shifted through his thoughts and on his face. Anger and disgust directed at the school, the people, and life in general were the most prominent, displayed in his furrowed brow and ever-present frown. Annoyance came secondhand in eye-rolls and quiet sighs and little muscle twitches. He didn't acknowledge the sadness or fear or tension, but they were all there in the way he kept his hands tucked and balled neatly behind his back or shoved in his pockets. They were there in the fact that he didn't speak a word unless it was to respond to the professor calling for attendance and interacted with next to nobody, avoiding eye contact and casting his gaze downward whenever anybody looked in his direction.

Ford held himself high despite his exhaustion, checking and rechecking his posture, adjusting his stance and making sure to look like he had his act together. Intimidation wasn't his aim, not exactly, but he tried to put off an air of standoffishness. He walked through the throngs of students completely alone, separated from whatever world They existed in. That was fine with him. He didn't want to exist in Their world. He hated Them all for being here and for the things he knew They'd do to him if he ventured into Their world. Their world terrified him, and he'd learned from experience it was best never to go there. So he continued forward, isolated among crowds. He felt inhuman sometimes, but that was okay. He liked feeling human even less.

He pondered how much he hated humans in general (apart from Tesla and Sagan and The Greats, of course, but they were almost superhuman, weren't they?) as he entered the room where he was to attend chemistry. Ford was suddenly yanked from his introspective daze and abruptly back into the world he'd spent all day separating himself from when his eyes landed on the back of somebody's head. The individual had light brown hair with a lighter streak running horizontally across it.

Shit.

Why the hell was the hillbilly even in chemistry? He should be taking the more basic sciences, not the advanced classes. Ford's head was suddenly swimming. God. Fuck. No. A thousand "what ifs" bombarded his mind as he lowered his head to stare at the floor and quietly made his way to the lab table as far from Fiddleford as possible. He saw him turn and look at him, but pretended he hadn't. He didn't want to try to read that expression, he didn't want to try to determine the implications of his being here. He didn't want to think about what had probably already been said to the boy sitting next to him.

Ford sat down at the empty table in the back corner and hoped against hope that nobody would join him. He folded his hands neatly under the table and fixed his gaze on the chipped, off-white drywall. He heard the sound of the stool next to him scooting across the cheap tile floor and caught movement at the edge of his vision, but it felt so far away.

"Hey. Is it alright if I sit here?"

He didn't move. The words barley even registered in his mind.

"Okay. Gonna take that as a yes."

It all felt unreal. Ford felt like he was about to implode. His head felt suddenly too full and too empty and too heavy and too light all at once. Then blackness started to cloud his view. Little spots of darkness spread across his vision. He was sure he just had a migraine or a headache or som-

"Are you okay, man?"

What? Ford lifted his head from where it lay on the table and blinked blankly at the guy next him, a redhead with thick eyebrows and a scraggly beard.

"You kinda blacked out for a second there."

Stanford opened his mouth, but no words came out. A few seconds passed before he finally forced out a strangled-sounding "Oh". He felt like he was losing his mind, and if he looked like he felt, he was probably going to end up doing just that. So he straightened his back and sat tall and cleared his throat and spoke with so much forced confidence that he almost fooled himself. "Yes, I'm fine."

The professor went through her attendance list. When the name "Fiddleford McGucket" was called and a nasal "here" was echoed in reply, the horror of his situation started to sink in. When the name "Stanford Pines" was called and also answered with a "here" and everybody (including Fiddleford) turned and stared at him, everything suddenly became real again. He was at Backupsmore University. He was stuck in a class with the redneck who probably already hated his guts. Said hick was currently leaning over and whispering something to the person next to him and he really shouldn't have been so nasty to him yesterday and now he was dangerously close to being in Their world because Fiddleford was telling him all about his breakdown and now there was nothing in his mind but constant, screaming static.

No, he wasn't going to break down right here. Ford wouldn't let himself lose it. He bit down on his tongue and tightened his hands on his knees, trying to stop his trembling. He told himself that it might not be too late. Fiddleford wasn't necessarily spreading rumors about him. He wasn't in Their world yet. He could fix this before it got out of hand, he could prevent everyone from knowing. All he had to do was apologize. He wasn't going to apologize because he was scared, that was ridiculous. He was going to apologize because it was the right thing to do, right? He was going to do it because he was a good person… right? He would just say sorry when he got back to the dorm later and everything would be fine. Surely.

Ford still wasn't sure why he'd lashed out in the first place. Fiddleford might be annoying, but he really didn't seem like a bad person. He did seem like the kind of person who would do things like tell the secrets of the people who crossed him, though, but no, he wasn't worried about that. He wasn't anxious at all, he had no reason to be. Besides, even if Fiddleford told everyone that he was a weak, pathetic freak, it didn't matter. What happened in Their world didn't affect him. Fine, fine. He was fine.

As soon as his last class ended, he tore across campus and back toward the dorms. Ford sprinted as fast as his legs could possibly carry him. He tripped at one point and took a hard fall on the concrete and everybody was looking at him again and his heart was beating so fast and his chest was going to explode and maybe he was crying now but he didn't want anyone to see that because only children cried over such silly things and men didn't cry and so now he was running even faster and just up the stairs and his dorm room was right down the hall and he was here.

Ford took a deep breath and paused outside the door. He wiped his face and collected himself, then unlocked the door and walked in. There he was, sitting at his desk. Stanford approached as his throat tightened. "Uh, Fiddleford."

"Yeah?" Oh, damn. He sounded pissed.

"I, um, I wanted to extend a formal apology for my rude behavior yesterday. I don't know what came over me. It wasn't right of me to take my anger out on you, you were simply trying to be polite. So… my apologies." he finished awkwardly, wishing he couldn't feel the sweat dripping down the side of his face.

Fiddleford let out a relieved sigh and stood up with a smile on his face. "Oh, thank the Lord. I was kinda hoping you were just in a mood. Here I was thinkin' you were some stuck-up jerk. I'm happy to put this all behind us. I'm real sorry on account of my actions as well, I hope you can forgive me."

"Of course." The corners of Ford's mouth twitched upward in the beginnings of a nervous smile.

"How's about we start over?" Fiddleford extended a hand toward him for a handshake.

Ford hesitated for a second, then returned the gesture. It wasn't balled into a fist this time. Ford figured an open handshake would help to show that his apology was sincere and he was willing to start fresh. He was conscious of the fact that it would probably alert Fiddleford to his six fingers (if he hadn't noticed already) and that could possibly be used against him as well, but being made of for his polydactyly was practically inevitable. It wasn't something he could avoid, it was bound to happen at some point.

"Well, in that case, my name is Stanford Pines and it's a pleasure to meet you." His voice was shaking a lot more than he wanted it to.

Fiddleford grinned. "Fiddleford McGucket. The pleasure's all mine." Then he glanced down at their clasped hands. Sure enough, he noticed. Ford visibly cringed as he began to speak, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes. "So, six fingers, huh? That's freaky."

Stanford tucked his hands behind his back and let out a breathless "yes". He couldn't do anything but agree. Freaky. He'd hit the nail on the head.

Fiddleford frowned at his reaction. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset 'ya."

Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder. Ford stiffened and let out an unintentional gasp. Fiddleford jumped back and both of them giggled nervously.

"It's alright. I'm used to it." Ford gave a tight, bittersweet smile and walked over to his own desk.

"No, really, I'm-"

"Not a problem." Ford said, giving a dismissive hand wave over his shoulder. He spoke in a way that said drop it.

Fiddleford went silent and sat down at his own desk. He stared at Ford for a few seconds before speaking up again. "W-well, I'm assuming you've got stuff to work on, so I'm just going to-" He gave an awkward whistle then pointed to his desk before spinning around in his swivel chair so that his back was to Stanford.

Ford snickered. "Have fun with that." He pulled out the week's chemistry assignments and a pencil and buried himself in getting the hell out of Backupsmore.

credit to sovvung on tumblr for coming up with that sick burn about the tractor, btw