It would have been easy to respond to that remark in kind (I never claimed to be the poet, did I?) but Ford had no interest in banter at the moment, not when Tycho was high on spiritus sancti and floating over his bed. It was one thing for Ford to do this to himself. There were three main sorts of grief that he had been drifting between, since they'd said their goodbyes prior to his wedding. There were the commonplace things that happened over the course of the day that surprised him and reminded him of Tycho; things that threw him back into his feelings while he did his best to keep his face straight. Those happened often enough that he'd started to get a sense of what to avoid, though it was impossible to avoid everything. Those were no one's fault, he recognized — only time would make them any easier. Then there were the self-inflicted wounds, when he allowed himself time to sulk over poems or to fall asleep tracing his way through memories they'd shared. These were things that he knew would hurt right from the beginning, but he often did them anyway — sometimes it seemed like there was nothing else to do. And finally there was the sort of grief that felt sweet at the start — the fantasies. Imagining what he would say to Tycho if he were to throw caution to the wind and walk back through his floo, the look on Ty's face, the taste of his lips, the curve of his hip as they came together — things that felt good as long as he could sustain the illusion, but the longer and sweeter they were the harder it was when they eventually clashed against the reality of an empty bedroom.

It was one thing for Ford to do that to himself; it was something else to have Tycho throw it over him like a blanket. It be forcefully reminded of what it sounded like when Ty laughed, because he was four feet away and laughing — it was cruel to both of them, and what the fuck might not have been eloquent but it really was the most appropriate phrase. Especially with Tycho showing up here like that, when Ford remembered exactly what it would feel like if he reached out to touch him.

"Get out of my room," he sputtered. "Before —" Before Jemima heard voices from across the hall and got suspicious, or before Tycho could touch him. Ford wasn't sure which he was more concerned about — either which was more likely or which was more potentially disastrous — and he didn't want to go giving Tycho ideas, regardless, assuming he hadn't already come with an agenda of his own.

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