A/N: I have not read Of Mice and Men, but I do know the story reasonably. I LOVED the Tim and Landry unlikely friendship, and the literary exploration of Tim's struggles.
Enjoy!
"As happens sometimes, a moment settled and hovered and remained for much more than a moment. And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, much more than a moment." – John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men
Landry's a funny kid. Tim reflects on whether or not he's met anyone else like him, and decides that he hasn't. Landry's excitable in ways that Tim didn't know you could be.
Hell, who gets riled up about assigned reading?
Not that the book was half bad, at least other than the ending. Messed up, that was. Tim considers, knows that that's where he's getting material for his stupid oral report, but decides that he can kill another half hour out here at least without thinking about it.
Or thinking about it, because he can't exactly get his brain to shut up. Not without beer.
His only comfort is that Landry didn't try reading him the freaking Scarlet Letter.
Which is not, it would seem, about a gal named Scarlet.
Tim googled it, just to make sure he doesn't get blindsided by Mrs. Taylor again, and from the gist of it, that book is—kind of close to home at the moment.
This is why he's always chosen to be ignorant. Gives people less fodder, or whatever.
It's chilly on the bleachers, and the wind flickers sharply around him. Sometimes, after a game, he and Jason would clamber up here at night with a six-pack. Jay would get all serious when he was drunk, start talking about constellations and crap like that. Tim likes stargazing, as a good Texan should, but he's never felt the need to name them.
Sitting here alone, he thinks that there's a good possibility that Landry's not the only one who wants to shoot him right about now.
He'd deserve it, too. He deserves all the punishment Street and the team want to dish out, and more besides. He knows that. Knows that you don't just say sorry for something like he's done.
Crushed a dream, like Landry said. Killed your best friend.
These things don't get forgiven.
These things define.
He knows what he is pretty well at this point. It's almost enough to make it everyone else's fault, for trusting him or trying to see the best in him.
This is as good as he gets. Empty promises made in good times.
Tim blinks upwards. His eyes are stinging—it must be the cold air. He's not sure if he went back that he wouldn't do it all again, that's the worst part. Doesn't think he'd be strong enough.
He doesn't want to go back. There's no point, since it can't be done anyway.
As for going forward? That's just as bad, because it's known and unknown, free and yet determined.
The past predicts the future, in some way. Only thing that changes is the moment now, when the world turns and people make bad decisions.
When you shoot your best friend.