Chapter Text
What else is there to be said about ambition? That restlessness, the want for something better, the drive to pursue more. A person's greatest virtue and worst flaw.
You were never really one to reminisce on such ideas of literary metaphor, but whenever you think of your university days, you are reminded of the one man who is ambition personified. Stanford, Ford, Pines.
Dark brown hair, glasses with black frames, signature brown sweater vest. Allegedly 10 PhDs (though you’re sure it was 12 and the numbers got mixed up along the way), a $100,000 grant for research, and a library live-in. He fit the bill of his reputation– he’d ramble about quantum theory for an hour uninterrupted if given the chance, he had a course load that gave the average student a headache, and he was always studying. Backupsmore’s own pride and joy.
You admired him for that, truly. But, he was also his own greatest enemy.
Calls himself Atlas– that man thought himself good for the position
Spherical map, shoulders bent, palms against rock
Hands worthy of holding everything, best of the best
You first hear about the infamous man in your first month at university. Like the rest, you aren’t so displeased at Backupsmore. Not the worst, not the best, still education. But there’s apparently someone who is, someone who is speaking to the Dean about doing 2 PhDs and some postgraduate coursework already. You’re content in your future at this college, but the fight within this Ford Pines character was at the very least amusing. He had guts, you’d give him that.
No matter. He is an interesting character, you decide. You catch a glimpse of him once, sleeping in the library. But for freshman year, to you, he is but a cryptic. A legend borne from the idle gossip between dormhouses and campus stories of his academic prowess.
Then, about a month into your second year, you meet him in all his glory.
It’s not necessarily a surprise he’s in one of your classes, with the amount of work he takes, it’d be more impressive not to run into him.
And so, when he gets into an impassioned speech in the middle of a professor’s lecture about how collision theory really operated, you giggle. He’s passionate, evident by everything he does. You find it cute, in a weird way. The other students give him mixed reactions (vague nods of impression, snide remarks whispered to each other, eye rolls), but he seems pleased to get it off his chest. Ah, oh well, you can’t win them all.
After class ends you tap him on the shoulder, his muscles tense as if anticipating some sort of nasty comment on his interruption, but you instead smile and let him you find his impromptu speech endearing.
The next lecture, he sits next to you.
From there, you find Ford Pines is as nerdy as he is easy to be friends with.
You find out not only do you share a class in Advanced Chemical Reactivity 211, but also a few other classes, including your incredibly difficult Quantum Theory 302 class. He offers to help tutor you since you’re struggling, and damn, never has a student looked so benevolent as Ford Pines does in the moment he bestows his grace to you. You exaggerate, but your physics grades have never looked better after his assistance. It kicks off the tradition of shared study sessions every Friday and Sunday, though as your friendship progresses, “studying” is hardly the word you’d use. Not that you mind, you think the genius needs a break.
By the low lamplights in the dingy library of Backupsmore University the two of you scribble chemical equations in your notebooks, physic formulae become scrawled in your respective margins, and curate late night flashcards to revise for upcoming tests. You drink coffee from each other’s mugs (easier and cheaper than getting up to ask for a refill), you end up making friends with Fiddleford, you rise up the rankings in academics over your semesters. It’s a nice life with nice people. You smile.
Ford Pines is not just an interesting character, you decide one night.
His intellect and ambition must be that of a god’s, you think, divinity personified. It’s impossible otherwise. But all gods are modelled off of humans, and Ford Pines is just a man too. He is flesh and bone, and has a weakness for jelly beans. He’s a tangible thing, not some arbitrary mythic figure waiting to be analysed. A person manifests itself behind the reputation of a born genius, one who fumbles his words in new situations, and one that makes an abhorrent amount of science jokes like it’ll save his life. A little rough around the edges, but really, who isn’t? When he corrects you a bit too harshly for your own liking you brush it off because it’s a small thing. If he talks down to you, he only means well. Every great man has his flaws, after all.
He is brilliant. He is real. The second must be true for anyone to really believe he is something more than rumours. The best thing about Ford Pines is that he’s more than an idea.
He lives to correct his professors when they slip up, argues with his peers he deems to be dull, and researches until his brain can’t handle it anymore. And yet, he makes sure his books aren’t creased, he takes any extra credit he can, regardless of if he needs it, and he is always striving to be better than he was the day before. Ford is a layered man, but one that was tangible.
You like him better when he is more than this ideal, that pursuit for greatness. Humanity is found within shared stolen whiskey in a college dorm room– all that matters is hidden where rankings become meaningless numbers.
You go through the months and semesters with inside jokes and memories you could hold in your palms. Trinkets decorate the drawers of your room with sentimentality attached like a scent, and sometimes you find yourself awake the next morning in Fiddleford and Ford’s living room. Your academics bring in success, your friends care about you, the calendar seems to only be filled with good days.
One day you realise he lingers when you’re around. His gaze follows your movement, he remembers things about you that you honestly forget yourself. He says your name more often, like he enjoys the way it tastes.
This change is not an unwelcome one, for you happen to reciprocate in your own ways (dreaming of him in the night, frequenting trips to the local store to buy jelly beans, talking about him whenever the chance manages to arise).
This brings you to midnight in his dormitory. Fiddleford is out late with family, you don’t care to stay with your own roommate. The television buzzes with some white noise you can’t remember or care to listen for. Ford is rambling, his words blending into a mix of scientific nonsense. You chip in occasionally, quipping in with some dry commentary. The two of you snack on popcorn and sweets. You both laugh.
The moon catches your face delicately. The screen lights cast your figure aglow. Your smile could rival the crescent moon. Cliche, but things like these are cliche for a reason, right? You’re saying something, but Ford can’t seem to concentrate when your lips are so… soft. Without really thinking, he mumbles your name. You let out a, “ Hm?”, turning to face him. He leans closer to you, though he doesn’t really have to lean very close because the two of you already were.
The kiss happens gently. Slowly. Nervously, as a pair of college nerds would be. You feel the slight hitch in your breath once you kiss. It’s like you’re in disbelief this could happen to you. Surprisingly, your teeth don’t clash, and your lips slot better than any of you could’ve imagined. His hand sneaks up behind your head, his palm against the nape of your neck. You’re angled slightly to the left and he to the right, cancelling each other out. That classic smirk of his is felt in the kiss.
You both break off just as tender as the kiss had come to be, lingering ever so slightly and eyes half-lidded. You stare at each other for a moment.
Then, Ford tilts your head back up to his, muttering something about how he didn’t kiss you right before, he needs to do it again. You smile against his skin and question if that’s some line he learned somewhere. He scoffs and says he just likes to aim for perfection.
From there, you two are integral to each other’s lives.
The weeks following are as enjoyable as they were before, but shifted slightly. There isn’t really a way to explain it other than it went from good to great. You and Ford start dating, though you two never really called it “dating” (he’d call labels like “boyfriend” juvenile, and insisted on the term “partners”), but whoever the two of you were, you were each other’s person. Fiddleford is still there with you, forming a closely knit trio. You eat food that fills your heart and stomach, your academics maybe don’t trump Ford’s but you give him a bit of a fight, your days are interesting enough to keep you on your toes.
Life turns out for the best. It is just about most of what you can ask for.
Perhaps you’re familiar with the parts of Ford Pines that act obtusely to others’ feelings when pressure is applied to them– when he feels like he’s being belittled for who he is or when he makes a mistake he deems elementary. He lashes out without meaning to (you hope), words precisely chosen to hurt. His personality does a one eighty and flips. Ford Pines is this way for a reason. You know this. You acknowledge this. You are aware of this.
You spend time with him anyway.
You do not know yet what lies beneath the tip of the pyramid.