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“There used to be a tunnel in the park near my house,” says Twain. It’s out of nowhere, and he couldn’t tell you why he said it if he went back and asked. Maybe he was thinking it; he’s never had a filter that blocks his thoughts from coming out unless it was important to have one. The words hang in the air for a second, and neither of the two of them are sure if there’s going to be a follow-up.
Steinbeck, who’s with him and driving the car they’re both in, raises an eyebrow curiously.
“Oh yeah?” he asks, in the tone someone might ask that same question to a child talking about their day. It’s not his fault he asks like that. It’s a little too easy sometimes to forget that not everyone needs to be talked to like Ruthie and Winfield did before they grew up too much. And God, did they grow up.
“Yeah,” Twain replies, and doesn’t seem to mind the tone anyway. “It was a--uh, a sewage drain, I think. I think that’s what those were called. Anyway, it was there for the rain, and it rained a lot. I musta got trapped in there a couple times, but I can’t ever remember if I made that up or not. Ain’t gonna come back to me anytime soon.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you had.” Steinbeck taps his fingers on the wheel. “You seem like you’d have been a pretty adventurous child. And stupid.”
“Hey!” Twain sounds like he should be offended, but he’s smiling like he always does because he knows Steinbeck doesn’t mean it. And besides, it was true. He’d never been the smartest kid. “I mean, you’re right, but hey! I dunno why I thought about it, though. It’s pretty outta nowhere, right? But I dunno. It feels the same right now as it did back then. I felt like I was goin’ somewhere no one else had ever been. Or somewhere no one else dared to go. An’ that’s what this feels like.”
Steinbeck laughs, short and tinted with confusion. “We’re just driving.”
“Yeah,” Twain agrees, but he’s not looking at Steinbeck anymore. He’s leaning against the passenger side window, looking out. Maybe looking for interesting cars, or something. “Yeah, I guess we are.”
Their first stop had left them both dead tired. Twain had paid for a motel room--and he’d continue to pay for the motel rooms in the future, but that’s unimportant--and the two of them had crashed in their separate beds that coexisted in the same room. One of them or both of them have the thought that it feels far, when they spend most of their time sitting right next to eachother in the front of a truck that isn’t Rochinante, because Rochinante had been wrecked forever ago in Japan.
This isn’t their first stop. This must be their millionth--that’s what Steinbeck thinks, anyway, but Twain has been traveling forever and to him this barely feels like any time at all. In any case, they’ve stopped sleeping in separate beds. It’s cheaper to get one full size bed than two. And they both like being close. Whether or not it’s close to eachother specifically is up for debate, but they’re both people who’ve spent their lives around other people, and Twain doesn’t move around in his sleep as much when he’s dead tired anyway.
So they’re lying in bed together and it’s Twain who’s the big spoon this time because there’s no sense in pretending they don’t want things to be this way. They switch, sometimes. Both of them like being the big spoon. But there they’re together and Steinbeck speaks because neither of them are going to sleep anytime soon.
“I didn’t think this was where I’d end up,” he says, and the way he says it is that particular way people confess to things when it’s late at night and they feel like they don’t have anything to lose because whatever they say won’t matter in the morning. “Not with you, I mean, I just.. I thought I’d be doing something.”
“You are doin’ somethin’,” Twain replies, obviously tired, “whether or not you wanna admit that drivin’ around the country is somethin’.”
“No, I know it’s something, it’s not like I’m trying to say I’d rather be doing something. I- Y’know?” Steinbeck sighs, and feels the urge to turn himself over so he’s facing Twain. But that’s be too much, their faces so close to eachother, and Steinbeck doesn’t want to surrender himself to that level of intimacy. “I thought at some point that I’d start some kinda rebellion. Against Fitzgerald, I mean. I thought about that a lot, even back when I first joined the Guild.”
Twain shifts so minutely that Steinbeck probably wouldn’t have even felt it if they weren’t so close together. Steinbeck thinks he might have opened his eyes, and he’s right about that, but he wouldn’t have any way of knowing.
“Looking back, it all seems desperate of me. I’m not much of a leader. I’m not sure how I could have kept something like that up.” Steinbeck laughs, then quiets down. Twain doesn’t respond to him immediately, but does eventually.
“I dunno what to say to that,” he says, but still cuts Steinbeck off when he tries to interject that he doesn’t have to say anything. “I mean, I think you coulda done it, but I don’t really think about things that coulda happened very often, y’know? Less fun if I have a plan. Everything goes one day at a time, and whatever happens happens.”
Then there’s silence again, and Twain adds, “I woulda helped.”
Steinbeck hadn’t even considered the thought that he wouldn’t have.
Twain doesn’t drive--he can’t, he never learned--so he fills the silence when Steinbeck doesn’t want to talk or is in a bad mood by writing. It only fills the silence metaphorically, of course, but Huck and Tom are there making their own commentary in his head all the time, so it’s never really silent for him anyway. But he writes mostly when Steinbeck doesn’t humor his talking, which isn’t very often, because the two of them get along pretty well.
Steinbeck actually notices for the first time while they’re not talking to eachother. If he looked back, he wouldn’t remember why the fight started, but he’s always prone to saying things he didn’t mean and Twain tends to match his intensity, scared of backing down. He wants to apologize. Steinbeck does, that is. Twain does too, but he doesn’t know that, and he can only hope. So he sneaks glances over at Twain while the truck is on a stretch of empty highway, like he’s looking for the right time to say something. And Twain is writing.
It’s probably about Steinbeck. That’s exactly what it’s about, actually. Twain writes about what he sees, and aside from the occasional short story that pops into his head and gets written down hastily on some unimportant notepad in an inherently important motel, he writes nonfiction. So he’s writing about Steinbeck, and his own feelings, but he’s not writing about their fight. He’s already done that, but that’s what Steinbeck imagines he must be writing about. It’s what he’d be writing about if he were Twain, because he just can’t ever let things go because of his ridiculous pride. Twain isn’t like that, though.
Twain writes about love. And it’s bittersweet right now because they’re fighting, but he doesn’t curse Steinbeck’s name. He definitely doesn’t wish Steinbeck had chosen to stay in Japan, after it all. It’s just a sense of losing something he never had, like this fight might mean that Steinbeck doesn’t have feelings for him, or not the same feelings.
But he does.
Twain will guard these pages of his diary with his life. Somewhere down the line, Steinbeck will read them anyway, and he’ll see that Twain only ever wrote about how much he cared about Steinbeck even during their fights. But today he’ll just bite his lip and hope Twain doesn’t think too badly of him.
“We should stop for food soon,” Steinbeck says, voice hoarse either from not using it for a while or from using it too much before that. When he glances over at Twain, he catches a glimpse of a look in Twain’s eyes that he interprets at surprise. He’s mostly right in his interpretation.
“Okay,” Twain says, after Steinbeck has turned his gaze on the road. He reaches forward and turns up the radio, singing along to whatever song comes on. Steinbeck hasn’t heard most of them.
Everything feels so domestic. They don’t have a house, unless Steinbeck’s family’s house counts, but he’s still procrastinating on going back there. And Twain hasn’t lived anywhere in a long time, save for the hotel rooms he’s rent for months at a time when he had to stay close to Guild headquarters. Still, the way they both get out of the truck and check into motels feels oddly intimate after they’ve done it enough. Even eating at shitty fast food places together starts to feel like it’s something that would be odd if either of them did it alone.
And driving.
Steinbeck always drove anywhere he could from the moment he got his license. It was a nice excuse to be out of the house, even if he was just going to get groceries for everyone or to go on some walk to clear his head. It’s not like he’d never driven alone before, but he doesn’t know if he wants to go back. And Twain--well, Twain’s been alone forever. Sure, he’s ridden in the passenger seat of plenty of cars and he probably could go back to doing what he used to, not staying with any one person for too long, but why would he?
“I never want to stop doing this,” Steinbeck says, a smile still on his face. They’d just been--well, it’s a long story, but they’re in the car now after having to run away from the cops, and Steinbeck had said what he did after a high of laughter. Twain is still chuckling for a few seconds after Steinbeck talks and for a minute it seems like he’s not going to respond.
But he fixes his gaze on Steinbeck and he’s smiling impossibly wide, and it seems like there’s a million things he wants to say.
“You don’t hafta stop,” Twain says, and Steinbeck wants to believe it isn’t that simple. He doesn’t think about Ruthie much these days, or Winfield, or Rosasharon. They come up in his thoughts when Twain isn’t talking, and Twain is usually always talking. He’s already as good as left them behind, and he doesn’t even have the decency to feel bad about it. His smile fades, and then Twain’s does too.
“I’m a terrible person, aren’t I?” Steinbeck asks, and doesn’t need to look at Twain to picture the confused expression he must be making. He’ll have his head tilted to the side, kind of like a dog.
“What’s that s’posed to mean? I mean, I know we literally just broke so many laws back there, but you’ve always been fine with it before.” There’s a small tapping noise that gets louder as Twain talks. It’s the sound of his sandal tapping on the soft floor of the car where his feet rest. Steinbeck can practically see his leg bouncing, but he doesn’t check to look.
“I ran away from everything,” Steinbeck explains. “I was gonna--I was gonna do something for my family, and instead I’m here, and they could be dying.”
Twain looks oddly pensive. He ran away himself, after all, from six siblings and a dad who wanted him dead. And a mom who just let it happen, because she’d always been too scared to step in. He’d never felt bad about running, because nobody in that house had relied on him. It’s hard to be liked in a family like that as the second youngest and the biggest troublemaker.
“I don’t even want to go back, Twain,” Steinbeck says, when Twain doesn’t answer him. “That’s the worst part. I think about them and I feel guilty, but I don’t want to go back at all. I’ve never been happier in my life than I am right now.”
“I’m bad, too.” Twain barely waits for Steinbeck to finish talking. “It’s not like I’m some kinda saint. We’ve both run away from somewhere. Even if stayin’ here an’ doin’ this makes you some kinda terrible person, you’re not--we’re both terrible, y’know? I’m not any better than you for this.”
Saying that, of course, doesn’t fix everything.
But it ends the conversation, Steinbeck’s only contribution after that a noncommittal hum.
It shouldn’t take Twain almost dying. It really shouldn’t, but Steinbeck has never been the best at acting on things and Twain never wanted to make him uncomfortable by acting on things too soon, so nothing had ever happened between them. But then Twain ends up in a fight with a guy at a bar he’d insisted on going to, and the two of them are escorted outside and before Steinbeck can even walk out the door he hears a gunshot.
He’d thought it was Twain, at first, and he would have grabbed him and ran. But the other guy’s hands are shaking, and there’s a still-smoking gun in his hands and a bullet in the wall inches from where Twain is standing, eyes wide. And Twain is drunk, too, would have done something stupid and reckless and unfairly badass if he had been sober enough to react. But all he could do was stare, and so Steinbeck grabs his arm and the two of them just run. It feels like Steinbeck has to drag him.
It’s a short walk to the hotel--not a motel, this time, because Twain had insisted they could treat themselves and that he still had plenty of Guild money left--but it feels like it’s longer because Steinbeck’s heart is racing and neither of them say anything. He drags Twain up to their room and Twain is almost shocked, but he feels like he shouldn’t be. Because it’s not like Steinbeck has never gotten like this before, it’s just different.
“You’re so fucking stupid.” Steinbeck says. He’s not yelling, but Twain winces like he had been, and Steinbeck thinks he should feel bad about it, but he’s so mad, and he’s-- Worried. He was worried. Not so much anymore, but Twain was inches away from a bullet in his brain, and wouldn’t that have been an ironic way to go out? “Seriously. Don’t look at me like that, what the hell was that all about?”
“I’m sorry,” Twain says, and he looks like he means it, but he’s also just trying to placate Steinbeck. “I didn’t think-- I didn’t know--”
“Jesus Christ, Mark! I’m sure you fucking didn’t! And that’s the problem with you, all the time! You never look for this kind of thing, you just jump in headfirst and you don’t even care what happens to you! What the hell do you think that does to me?” And that’s yelling. That’s anger, that’s hurt, and that’s whatever he’s feeling. Twain doesn’t even have the decency to flinch away or to act like Steinbeck is hurting him. “I can’t believe you. A couple inches to the left and you’d be in the hospital. Or lying there dead on the floor. Do you even know what it does to me every time you do something like that, or do you just not care?”
“I’m sorry,” Twain says again, like it’s any help. “I’m just. I’m used to there not bein’ anyone who’d miss me. I’ve never had someone who-- who’d be upset. If I died. But I didn’t die, and I never really understood why you cared as long as I was still alive-”
“Because I love you, asshole!” Steinbeck shouts, and doesn’t even care that whoever’s in the room next to him definitely heard that. And then there’s quiet. And Steinbeck takes a breath and tries to calm himself down. “Because it scares me. You just--you don’t have any regard for your own wellbeing and it scares me when you do shit like this because I know you don’t think about the future, but I do, and I think about what could happen if you-- if--”
Twain cuts him off. Not with words, this time, which is uncharacteristic for him, but he kisses Steinbeck. It doesn’t placate him at all, but it answers a question he’d been too afraid to ask. One he was hoping Twain wouldn’t answer at all. It doesn’t even last long; Twain pulls away and looks at him in the eyes and says, for the third time that night, “I’m sorry.”
It almost makes Steinbeck want to yell at him again. But Twain carries on, “You know I don’t think about stuff like that. An’ I always forget that you do, y’know? It’s hard to remember that you--that you’re not the same kinda person I am when it comes to stuff like that. But I can try. I mean, I’ll always be stupid and reckless an’ a total idiot, but I’ll try to be careful. Or at least to think things through more. No guarantee I’ll always remember, but-- you just go ahead and stop me if I’m really gonna do somethin’ dumb, right? Just tell me you love me, or somethin’, and I’ll stop ‘cause I don’t ever wanna do somethin’ that’ll make you regret that.”
And that’s all Twain says, but it’s enough. They must talk about more before they end up in bed, facing eachother, Twain’s head tucked into Steinbeck’s chest while Steinbeck holds him tightly, but neither of them quite remember it.
“I love you too,” Twain mumbles, tired and still probably tipsy, and Steinbeck smiles.
“I’d hope so, dumbass.”
And Twain laughs.
There had been a tunnel in the park near Twain’s house. Steinbeck never really thinks about the time he had mentioned it out of the blue, because he does stuff like that a lot, but Twain has put a lot of thought into that tunnel since he left. It’s just a tunnel, of course. The tunnel itself hadn’t meant anything.
But he thinks about the feeling he’d always gotten from it, and he knows that the best times he can remember were always spent there with his friends. He never did go into that tunnel by himself after his first lone venture inside disappointed him. It always seemed to lose its charm when there was no one else around.
Because it was never really about the journey. Not to him, anyways. He’ll never be sure whether or not it was about that to the rest of the kids he was friends with at the time, but looking back on everything, the journey was only part of it.
He looks over at Steinbeck from where he’s writing in his success diary. He’s lost in his own little world, it seems like, but he and Twain aren’t fighting or anything. Steinbeck’s thinking about where they’re going to go next, listening only partly to the music that’s playing on the radio. He recognizes it as one of Twain’s favorite songs, and probably wonders why Twain isn’t singing along.
Twain turns his head back to the almost-filled last page of this volume of his success diary. He’s already bought another journal for the next volume, but knowing it’s going to continue doesn’t mean he doesn’t want his last line to be something special.
The journey was only part of it.
Twain thinks about being a kid and playing in a tunnel in the park that everyone’s parents hated them going into. He thinks about smiling and laughing. And Twain thinks about all the places he and Steinbeck have gone, and finds that the places have been a secondary thought in his mind ever since he started traveling with Steinbeck. His head is full of memories of Steinbeck’s laughter, the brightness in his eyes during the high points and his anger and disappointment during the lows. And that’s what he remembers the most clearly.
The rest was the people the journey was shared with. I don’t think adventures were ever meant to be had by yourself.