He hears that sound, and something in Ford that had still been wound tight, ready for fight-or-flight, relaxes. It goes right to his instincts: it reassures that Ford's not the only one having trouble thinking, that it's okay to let go a little more. His hand slides up to Bill's side, thumb on the bricks in front and five more fingertips spread across Bill's back, and the kisses begin to blur into each other. It's just touch and dizzy warmth and the delirious thrill of being kissed by Bill-who's-been-frustrated-for-years, and the breaths Ford has to steal when they break apart have the timbre of sighs. They might be a little more controlled if he'd tried this sober, but he didn't, so they come out as soft little ahs.

He's got his back to the piano now, and as he pulls at Bill, stay here, he lets the instrument take more of his weight. If it's on wheels, he's completely forgotten about it and the risk that it might send him falling backwards. If it's not, they're fine.