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"Fiddleford, if you don't sit up you're going to give yourself kyphosis." Ford pauses where he stands in the doorway, waiting for the words to register in F's mind.
"I reckon," he mumbles in reply.
Ford sighs, slumping his own shoulders forward in exasperation.
Fiddleford is leaned over his desk with magnifying glasses over his regular glasses and a circuit board on the desktop. He's got a soldering iron in one hand and a spider silk-sized copper wire in the other. His neck is bent at an ungodly angle—Ford can't imagine it's comfortable—and his shoulders are hunched up to his ears.
"You're going to damage your spine," he tries again.
"Hogwash!" That reply had a little more force to it. He sticks his tongue out between his lips as he gets even closer to the desktop, concentration and focus at one hundred percent.
"Tch." Ford whirls on his heel and leaves for class, pushing F's posture out of his mind. He'll deal with the consequences of those actions soon enough, and Ford will have the grace not to say I told you so. At least, not more than once.
Ford doesn't return to the dorm until well after dark, when the campus library kicks him out. When he opens the door slowly, in case Fiddleford's gone to sleep, he's surprised to find said roommate still sitting in the exact same spot.
He checks his watch, shutting the door behind him. The circuitboard on the desk is three times the size it was earlier, and F's eyes are so bloodshot that Ford has to sympathy-blink.
"Fiddleford!"
He startles, dropping the miniature screwdriver in his hand and banging his knees on the bottom of the desk. He turns to glare at Ford, and a CRACK echos across the room.
There's a beat of silence, and then more shouting.
"Son of a motherless goat!" He cries. His hands go to his neck and he winces. "B-banjo polish! Dagnabbit!"
Ford tries to step forward, hand reached toward his friend, but stops for his release of one final expletive.
"Kentucky-fried motherhugger on a stick! That hurt!"
Ford bites down his 'I told you so'. F probably doesn't even recall their earlier conversation. He dips slightly to enter his friend's line of vision. "Have you moved at all since I left?"
He continues to rub his knobby knuckles over his neck and shoulders, wincing all the while. "I figure I haven't, since I don't remember gettin' up and I don't remember ya leavin'."
A very deep, long suffering sigh leaves Ford. He moves behind F, books and backpack forgotten in the doorway. He rolls both of his wrists once, then gently lays hands on F's shoulder and neck area. "Did I take you to raise?"
Fiddleford just about giggles at the question. He's asked Ford that a hundred times in the last few months, he deserves to hear it tossed back at him.
Ever so gently, Ford presses his thumbs down on the top of F's trapezius muscles. The strain of it beneath his skin is so tremendous, Ford sucks in a breath himself. It feels like he's kneading raw spaghetti noodles or something; this is not what a human body should feel like.
F stiffens, as the first few moments must be painful. But Ford is slow and patient, and in due time his roommate begins to melt like butter.
"Yer wasted in science," Fiddleford mumbles. "Wasted. Shoulda been a masseuse."
Ford chuckles. His glasses are slipping from his nose, but he doesn't want to pull his hands away to correct them. It can wait a moment. The muscles in Fidd's shoulders are starting to relax under the gentle prodding and the natural heat of his hands. "I'm afraid I don't have the necessary patience."
F snorts. "True enough."
Ford keeps going until his hands are sore, and his glasses are damn near falling off his nose. By that time, Fiddleford is an exhausted mess. Ford doesn't have to do anything more than tug his arm to stand him up, then maneuver him the few feet away to flop on his bed. The man pulls his pillow close and curls up, fully dressed.
"G'night," he mutters.
Ridiculous. Utterly, endearingly ridiculous.