Portland was the place of fame and fortune. Gravity Falls, however, was a city of ‘nothing to see’, but all to hear. Stanford’s youth worked to his advantage, his eagerness hardly failing him yet. In his nearly tarnished Deville convertible, he nodded in approval.
Taking a second to breathe, a new sort of heat pulsed through his veins - the white hot feel of actuality bearing down on him. Though in shambles, the shack held its own well enough. In a way, it reminded him of himself. A fixer-upper: a few scratches that could be easily remedied in the right hands. It wasn’t long before he had another set, Fiddleford proving himself far above his means as both a partner and beyond. Soon, he would put more of himself into it than expected -- a whole…show more content… He went at this alone. Fiddleford was too...sensitive for the likes and strains of a ritual. His home-grown innocence stayed with him, as if he, himself, was frozen in time; his own innocuous state a challenge to even Ford’s intellect. An anomaly amongst the odd. The cave wasn’t too far of a hike, a virgin journal tucked securely into his satchel. He visited once before and with calculated steps, eased the ledge. Darkness crept, lurched, and swallowed him. With his satchel emptied and the preparations made, the journal rested between his crossed knees unopened. All that was left were the invocations. The hieroglyphs were easy enough to decipher and the research led him through each step with a practiced calm and paint dyed skin. “A sitch for anyone with half a brain, “ was mumbled above the gentle breeze of the evening, only to be replaced by the final flicking of a…show more content… The glow about him is an echo of what Fiddleford first saw in the young visionary. A white, blinding halo muddled by the blues of machinery and the skids of the proposed, suggested but rarely acted upon.
“These things?! Do you even hear yerself? I reckon you take your own advice, partner. ” Fiddleford spits, the heat packed by his words bubbling to the surface.
Unless he’s kept from noticin’.
The thought crashes into his mind and settled heavy in his heart, now thrown into a chaotic repetition. He can feel each synapsing pulse, fingers clicking against one another in search of some sort of connection. Something physical to make up for his mental lack.
“I’ve lost what we were trying to achieve. What we worked for! My quiet life, my family. I...I gave it all of up for this! For...” He can’t bring himself to say it. Words swell in his throat.
It’s when they’re close that he feels impervious. Arms wrapped around one another, utterly embraced as they breathed at uneven paces, still there, still intertwined as if they were. Fiddleford’s fingers lace, through awkwardly, into Ford’s own, like two freaks born for each other. Soft, quiet, soundless. Until it
