Thomas once said Van Gogh should have painted Victor. Thomas defines and defies Victor with his words, and though sometimes Victor tells him he cannot tell stories, Thomas tells the truth of who he is, who he was, who they are going to be. If Thomas stopped telling, really stopped telling, Victor would crumble and blow away dust.
They're not friends anymore, not like they were when they were ten, when they shared the bicycle, when they shared dreams, but Thomas is right, Victor has to take him along. This trip is much more about the past than it is about the future, but Thomas has an eye on both places.
Thomas has an eye on Victor, too, because Victor needs looking after, because Victor's father asked, because. They travel down to Phoenix to pick up what remains of Victor's father because it is right that they do so. Together.
Driving back in the truck, they both stare straight ahead. Shadows and light play across Victor's face. His hand is loose on the wheel. Thomas toys with the end of his braid with one hand while his left worries at the vinyl of the seat. The distance between them is measured in the lack of life. The road ahead is empty all the way to Spokane.
Thomas knows things before they happen, it seems, but it's only because he watches where things are going and so he knows where they will end. Thomas knows what will happen with them, what could, what should, but Victor would never be able to see that in his eyes, even if he knew how to look.
The way it could be is that they will hold each other in the dark, and it will be sweet when it needs to be and rough when they need that, and in the quiet Victor's hands on Thomas's skin will be the request and Thomas's cry will be their story.
The way it will be is that they will carry on at safe distances, the flash of Thomas's teeth when he smiles too big will be like almonds, bitter, and Victor will wrinkle his nose and turn away.
The way it should be is someplace in between, the story of the road between the bitter and the sweet.
They're not friends anymore, not like they were when they were ten, when they shared the bicycle, when they shared dreams, but Thomas is right, Victor has to take him along. This trip is much more about the past than it is about the future, but Thomas has an eye on both places.
Thomas has an eye on Victor, too, because Victor needs looking after, because Victor's father asked, because. They travel down to Phoenix to pick up what remains of Victor's father because it is right that they do so. Together.
Driving back in the truck, they both stare straight ahead. Shadows and light play across Victor's face. His hand is loose on the wheel. Thomas toys with the end of his braid with one hand while his left worries at the vinyl of the seat. The distance between them is measured in the lack of life. The road ahead is empty all the way to Spokane.
Thomas knows things before they happen, it seems, but it's only because he watches where things are going and so he knows where they will end. Thomas knows what will happen with them, what could, what should, but Victor would never be able to see that in his eyes, even if he knew how to look.
The way it could be is that they will hold each other in the dark, and it will be sweet when it needs to be and rough when they need that, and in the quiet Victor's hands on Thomas's skin will be the request and Thomas's cry will be their story.
The way it will be is that they will carry on at safe distances, the flash of Thomas's teeth when he smiles too big will be like almonds, bitter, and Victor will wrinkle his nose and turn away.
The way it should be is someplace in between, the story of the road between the bitter and the sweet.