Work Text:
LINHARDT
Linhardt turns his diploma in his hands and waits for some magic to happen, a moment where he encounters sudden knowledge about what happens next, or excitement at the unknown, or even simple self-satisfaction. He waits a moment, lets the gold foil on the stamp shine in the sunlight coming through his cheap, useless blinds.
Yep, it’s still just a piece of paper. He tosses it into a cardboard box with the rest of his notes and research scribbles. If anything, at least his diploma can serve as fodder for the fire when he inevitably has to burn all of his furniture to stay warm, a la Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart at the end of his short life.
“So La Mi, So La Mi, So La Mi, So La- ” his phone sings in familiar solfege.
“Hi, Dad,” Linhardt says, swiping his screen.
"Well, first of all," his father says through the phone, in a tone that has Linhardt tired already, "congrad-ulations."
"Thank you. The ceremony was boring."
"I'm sure it can't have been all that bad." Linhardt realizes what it is that makes him so tired of this voice. It's the fact that his father is pulling his Business Voice on him.
"Eh, well. One of us was there."
"I"m sorry. Things are just so crazy right now. Are you disappointed?"
"No, not really. There will be another one," Linhardt says and tosses his graduation cap in a box with other things he assumes he'll toss into his closet and not see again for ten years. It lands with a thud. "Look, I'm packing."
"We can't wait to see you, son." His father's voice goes quiet for a moment. "We're proud of you."
Linhardt hums but doesn't respond with much else.
"We were thinking of having a party on Saturday," Linhardt's father continues, “to welcome you home. And to celebrate your med school acceptance."
"I'm assuming by we, you mean Mom, yourself, and all the family and friends you already invited?" Linhardt is going through his bookshelf now, haphazardly arranging them in another box. Oh, look, his middle school yearbook.
"Great," his father says. "See you then. I'll stop bothering you and let you finish packing."
"Bye," Linhardt says blandly, but his father has already hung up.
He looks at the yearbook in his hands. It's too tall to fit in the box with his other books and it would be a hassle to pack. Maybe he can just throw it out. It's not as if he'll ever need this book again. He flips open the cover, trying to find his middle school portrait.
Linhardt von Hevring. He's assaulted by a picture of him with a badly tied ponytail, his hair escaping it in at least ten different places. He wears a small, serious smile, and his eyes are solemn and severe. Next to it, his quote reads: "QUOTE".
What a pretentious idiot. Linhardt hates that.
His eyes flit upwards, and just at the end of the next column is Caspar von Bergliez. He's wearing a tux, bowtie a few centimeters askew, and he's grinning in the easygoing way that Linhardt remembers. Caspar has always had this sort of charming smile to him, one that said, "Follow me. Or not. But I'm having fun doing this, so you probably will too." It's that grin and yell of enthusiasm that was able to pull Linhardt from his books at recess and actually play freeze tag for once. Well, not play. He was just Caspar's coach from the sidelines, but Linhardt still maintains that his role was more work.
Next to Caspar's grinning portrait is a dot marked in Sharpie. Linhardt suddenly remembers why that dot is there and chuckles to himself. In middle school, he put a dot next to every person he considered a suitable partner, in crime, business, friendship, or marriage, and then checked them off one by one like it was a battle royale. He never ended up telling Caspar that.
Flipping to the back of his book, he sees Caspar has taken up the entire upper half of the first signatures page. "H. A. G. S. - CASPAR," it reads, in big, square letters. "EMAIL ME AT [email protected]. THAT'S SIX R."
Linhardt snorts, then pulls out his phone immediately and snaps a photo.
To: Caspar von Bergliez
You wrote this, by the way.
11:48am, Delivered.
From: Caspar von Bergliez
Haha!
12:00pm
And...Caspar is still a bad texter.
So, that at least hasn't changed. It's one of the reasons why Caspar and Linhardt haven't talked daily for the past four years, why they went from pretzel-tight to something that felt more flexible, but more apart. The daily phone calls turned to weekly ones, turned to sporadic ones. Not that Linhardt felt any less close to Caspar, or that he found their friendship any less life-changing. They just weren't talking as much as they used to, and, now that he thought about it, Linhardt was curious about what Caspar had been doing for the past few years.
To: Caspar von Bergliez
Want to do something on Sunday? Going back home temporarily.
From: Caspar von Bergliez
Sure!!!!!!!!!!!!
To: Caspar von Bergliez
What do you want to do?
From: Caspar von Bergliez
Do you go to the gym now?
To: Caspar von Bergliez
No
<3
From: Caspar von Bergliez
Let's go fishing.
To: Caspar von Bergliez
You're on.
To: Caspar von Bergliez
Also, can you pick me up? I still don't have my driver's license.
This party is horrific.
The first problem is that the food and drink are too good. Linhardt normally doesn’t mind this, but he’s had about five glasses in the past hour. He tried the white, then the red, then moved onto the champagne, some other sort of bubbly thing, and then he tried something that tasted like grape juice but probably wasn’t.
“Mhmm,” he hums happily, sitting on an uncomfortable couch in the living room. Someone is talking to him, but he’s just thinking about how much he has to pee.
“What’s your area of study?”
“Mmmm… I don’t study,” Linhardt replies. “Sorry, I need to pee.”
The second problem is that there are entirely too many people here. The full-time von Hevring house opens into a large hallway, which eventually splits off into different rooms, which means there are so many places to wander off to if he doesn't want to speak to anyone. But somehow there are people in all of those places.
"Excuse me," Linhardt says clearly, hoping that he'll be able to clear the small crowd of four standing in front of the bathroom.
Congressman von Aegir takes that as him wanting to make conversation, unfortunately. "Young Mr. von Hevring!" he exclaims.
"Just Linhardt is fine.”
“Linhardt, congratulations,” von Aegir says with a smile. Linhardt squints at his combover. “My son also actually graduated this year from--”
“I need to pee,” Linhardt says suddenly.
“Ah, excuse me then.”
Linhardt nods, not even bothering to smile, and then pushes between the four of them to get to the bathroom. He closes the door behind him and sits down on the toilet. This is probably a number two sort of situation.
He takes out his phone and scrolls through his notifications. He's supposed to meet with Caspar tomorrow, but they haven't even really established where they're going, though Linhardt doesn't mind. Linhardt had one day declared that he didn't care for the day-to-day decisions such as where to go or what to eat, and so in high school Caspar was always picking him up after school and deciding where they would go.
"This kind of sucks," Linhardt would say, sometimes, when Caspar inevitably chose incorrectly.
"Well, then you pick a place," Caspar would huff back.
All the wine is making Linhardt sleepy. As Linhardt is scrolling, he finds Caspar's name pop up on his phone.
From: Caspar von Bergliez
Still on for tomorrow?
Linhardt swipes up and starts typing.
To: Caspar von Bergliez:
Yes. I'm at a party right now. Parents invited a lot of people over.
To: Caspar von Bergliez:
Well, technically I'm in the bathroom.
From: Caspar von Bergliez:
Haha! Want me to come rescue you?
To: Caspar von Bergliez:
No. I'm taking a shit.
Then, Linardt looks to his left and discovers the third problem with this party. There is no damn toilet paper left on the roll.
To: Caspar von Bergliez:
Actually, can you come now and bring me some toilet paper?
CASPAR → Texas
Caspar finds himself staring at the text with incredulity. Linhardt, the Linhardt who hadn't texted him for two months, suddenly sends him a picture of their middle school yearbook, and then asks him a few days later to bring him toilet paper?
Well, he has nothing better to do. Caspar gets up from his couch, grabs his keys from the counter, and makes his way to his car.
It's a beauty, this one. A red pick-up, with four wheel drive and even a roomy backseat. He's sure Linhardt will like it more than he liked his mom's Subaru in high school. Or maybe Linhardt won't like it. They haven't been talking as much as they used to, and Caspar knows that college can change people.
Which means, then, that Caspar probably hasn't changed that much. Is that good?
Caspar puts his key into the ignition and turns. Over the river and through the woods, to Linhardt's house he goes to give his childhood best friend some toilet as his fancy family has a fancy party with fancy people. Whatever, he'll just sneak through the back.
The house is just as he remembers. Caspar memorized the route to Linhardt's house a long time ago, and even though he hasn't been in three years, it's still ingrained in his muscles.
Caspar parks at the tail end of the von Hevring driveway, his red truck standing out from the long snake of sleek cars.
“Young von Bergliez!” a man with orange hair standing at the door gives him a wave.
Caspar smiles thinly, pressing his lips into a line that he hopes is pleasant, but not too pleasant. “Hi!”
“Haven’t seen you around in a while!”
“Oh, you know. Busy.” Caspar waves and then dashes into the house. “Sorry, trying to find someone!”
The party is what Caspar can only describe as twinkling. Everything is shiny. Reflective champagne glasses. Gemstone jewelry. Shiny watches. A chandelier. Perfectly polished silverware and metal picks for the appetizers going around. Caspar almost misses the food, but then he doesn’t. The food wasn’t worth the rest of it.
His pocket buzzes, and Caspar pulls out his phone.
From: Lin
are you here yet i’m in the bathroom
To: Lin
Please there are so many bathrooms here
From: Lin
The bathroom
is that a good hint
Oh. Caspar feels heat rise to his cheeks but he wills it away. That bathroom.
To: Lin
K
Caspar grabs some tissues from a nearby tissue box and sprints up the steps in all his toilet paper savior glory.
“I’m here, Lin.” Caspar knocks, then stuffs the tissues under the door one at a time.
He hears shuffling from behind the door as Linhardt presumably waddles over like a penguin.
“Aw, tissues?” Linhardt complains, his voice muffled by the door.
“What, you wanted a cloth napkin?”
“These don’t break apart in water as well.”
“How clogworthy is this shit you just had?”
The other side of the door goes silent for a few seconds, before Caspar hears a flush, the running of water, and the door swings open.
“Hi,” Linhardt says.
Caspar blinks twice.
Linhardt looks different from when he saw him last, the summer after Linhardt’s first year at college. He’s grown out his hair a bit, and he looks less like he’s going to fall asleep at any moment. Should Caspar say hi? Should he say you’re welcome? Ask Linhardt why he’s at this party as a toilet paper errand boy?
Caspar blurts out the first thing he can think of. “Wanna go fishing now instead?”
Linhardt cocks his head to one side, then smiles. “Sure.”
The night is warm, air thick with moisture and memory. Summer nights are usually dry here, desert weather and crisp cool. But tonight, out here, everything is drowsy.
The reeds inhale and exhale in slow, sleepy breaths, and even the moon seems to droop down in the sky, approaching the horizon. The small pond is a familiar place, inlaid among the green, flat land looking out for miles. They used to come out here all the time when they were younger, ro;mping through the weeds and catching tadpoles in the still water as their parents sat near a cooler nearby. It was a drive out from their neighborhoods, a hidden special place.
Caspar sits near the pond on a piece of wood he brought out from the back of his truck, a=[[ makeshift bench. He never liked fishing. That was Linhardt's thing. Summer days were spent out here, hot in the sun with no trees around, both of them baking red. Caspar would put a hat on his face and nap as Linhardt fished. Sometimes, just being together was enough, even if they weren't talking or doing anything. Those naps were always the best, Caspar remembers. It's like his body knew that Linhardt was near and knew it was safe to slip into deep comfort.
Tonight, they sit in similar silence. Caspar pulls up the tall grasses near him and rips bits off of the stalks, letting it cut his hands in tiny little stings. Linhardt took two glasses of wine on the way out of the house, so his cheeks are looking rosy in the dusklight.
Linhardt rests his chin upon his left hand, propped up by his elbow resting on his knee, and looks out at the pond. Caspar wonders what he's thinking about, what he should say. Would Linhardt still find him funny?
"This is kind of nice," Linhardt says suddenly.
"Uh," Caspar responds, "Yeah."
"I'm not even cold."
"It's probably the alcohol."
"Maybe I got used to the cold in Boston."
"Lot different from Texas, I'm sure. I mean, I've never been."
“Maybe you’d like it.”
“Maybe.”
A breeze blows warm air at them, and Caspar feels his skin prickle.
"So, what's up with you?" Caspar says, more loudly. "I haven't heard from you in a bit."
"Sorry about that," Linhardt says.
"It's okay." It's kind of okay? It has to be okay.
"Well, I guess I was just doing school all the time. I was working in a lab in Boston, and I think I could continue to work there after undergrad. The PI likes me. Parents want me to go to med school, though.”
Caspar looks over at Linhardt and catches a glimmer of something on that usually deadpan face. Something like annoyance, maybe exaustion? Sadness? He can't tell in the dark, with Linhardt's face half lit and closed off like it usually is.
"When are applications for that?"
"Like, many months ago."
"Oh, so you probably have offers already."
"I didn't apply."
Caspar waits a beat, tries to see if there’s more story. "Oh. That's okay!"
"You know me," Linhart says wryly, and Caspar catches a hint of a bite. "I do what I want."
"At least you know what you want."
"Are you kidding me?" Linhardt laughs and turns to Caspar next to him on the plank of wood. "I don't know shit."
"I guess from my perspective it seemed like you just wanted freedom to research the stuff you were interested in." But maybe Linhardt isn’t who he used to be.
"Wanna hear something crazy?" Linhardt shifts his fishing pole to his other hand. "When you're doing research, you aren't even really doing research. You have to do so many grant applications, deal with bureaucracy, worry about continuing to be funded. And if you're doing research for a company, you have to, like, do what they want you to do."
Caspar nods. "That does sound complicated."
"It is. I just want to, like, sleep under a tree and maybe run some experiments. Also, reading is so boring sometimes."
"Boring?"
"Sorry, I'm probably boring you." Linahrdt turns back to the pond with a sigh.
"No, it's fine!" Yes, Linhardt was always going off on these tangents on subjects that Caspar never quite knew much about. But they had stuff in common, like their love for their friendship.
Lately it's felt like without their friendship in common, Caspar finds it difficult to see where his place is in Linhardt's life. What is he to Linhardt? His little friend back home he keeps around for nostalgia or pity?
"Well, what have you been up to?" Linhardt says with a yawn. Looks like he's still sleepy as ever.
"You know, the usual." Caspar says. Caspar tells Linhardt a basic rundown of what has happened in the past two years that he hasn't already said through their brief exchanges over text.
After high school, Caspar immediately moved out of his parents' home. They wanted him to go to college. Caspar wanted to take a gap year. They wanted him to pursue something stable. Caspar just kind of wanted to chill and have a dog and maybe live in a van at some point. They wanted him to be unlike himself. Caspar wouldn't let anybody change him.
He started his gap year working as a mechanic for a local shop, and then he figured he liked it well enough and stuck around. He hasn't given up on the van thing yet, though.
"I have a job coming up in Yellowstone this summer," Caspar says. "Figured I could take a break from the shop so I’m just leaving it to Ashe. I'll be working in one of the restaurants there. They have dorms for it and everything."
Linhardt seems to perk up at that. "That’s cool. I've never been to Yellowstone."
"It's cool. There are bison there."
"Cool."
God, were they always this awkward?
"I'm leaving next week actually. It's going to be a long drive. I was going to make a road trip out of it."
"Oh, okay."
There's a moment of silence, when the pond suddenly seems too small, when the moon seems too sallow. Caspar wonders what it is, that marrow-deep constriction.
"Guess we won't really see each other that much this summer," Linhardt says.
"Well, it was good catching up," Caspar says. It's getting late, and Linhardt probably needs his beauty sleep.
Caspar turns to Linhardt and pushes his hands on his knees as if to stand. But then something stops him.
It's not that Linhardt is still trying to fish--he never was very successful at fishing in this pond, or any other pond for the matter. It's not that they haven't been sitting out here for a while--it must have been at least three hours at this point.
Maybe it's the way Linhardt looks right now, hair green and long, just like those reeds. The way that Linhardt's eyes look so tired, not sleepy, but tired of having to open.
"You want to come with me?" It's out before Caspar can even pull it back, his brain too slow to keep up with his impulsive tongue.
He half expects Linhardt to say no. Linhardt's busy. He probably has an internship and doesn't have a week to just spend snaking around the country in an old truck. Or, maybe he just wouldn't want to go.
Linhardt gives him a glance out of the corner of his eyes. "Sure."
LINHARDT → New Mexico
Caspar picks him up in the same van that he'd had in high school. It's red. Big. Boxy. It takes up the entire lane, and it's the kind of car that Linhardt would be afraid to park next to. It's very Texan. Hideous, even.
Linhardt peeks out from behind the curtains covering the front window after having lugged his two suitcases down the stairs. It will never get old seeing that ugly thing drive up his long driveway lined with rose bushes that stretch into that large green lawn.
He flings open the front door and hurries down the sidewalk. For some reason, he's sweating a little, and his stomach is doing that weird thing it does before the start of the dip on a roller coaster.
Caspar opens the driver's door and steps out with a grin. He's wearing his white rugby T-shirt from sophomore year, jeans, and boots, the same outfit he used to wear a lot in high school. But something has changed about him, Linhardt thinks. He seems quieter, somehow. More thoughtful. More sure of himself. Linhardt wonders what Caspar thinks of him, or if he thinks of him at all.
"Hey, you have a lot of bags there," Caspar says with a nod.
"Yeah, sorry, I just have a lot of work I need to do."
"You bringing an entire lab? Beakers and titration pipes and shit?" Caspar puts his hands on his hips.
"Okay, fine. This has first aid supplies, though." Linhardt holds up a small duffel bag.
"We're not, like, going into the wild," Caspar says with a laugh. “But okay, there’s room. Just put your stuff on the back of the truck.”
"But what if it rains?"
Caspar shrugs. "We've got trash bags."
Linhardt almost laughs. Caspar is so different from the friends he made at college, like Edelgard, the political science major who needs her six differently colored highlighters on her at all times and prepares weeks in advance just to find a slot in her full schedule to hang out, or Hubert, the dour business management major who barely speaks a word but wears a tie every single day. A tie. To his 8 AMs.
“Are you serious?” Linhardt says instead.
“Just kidding,” Caspar says. “I have a truck bed cover.”
Linhardt hauls the suitcases onto the back and slides into the truck without a word. As Caspar starts the truck with a rumble, he reaches out with his right hand to connect his phone to the speakers and presses play.
Caspar puts his arm around the back of Linhardt's seat to turn as he backs out. His hand is just inches from the back of Linhardt's neck, Linhardt notices, but then decidedly un-notices.
"Hey, this song was big in, like, eighth grade," Linhardt says.
"You judging my music? Figured I'd pick a song to represent how many years it takes to back out of this driveway."
"Maybe," Linhardt says, smiling. He doesn't mind this music. He doesn't mind the way Caspar is reminding him of how things used to be.
When they pull onto the road, Linhardt feels his eyes already drooping. They decided to leave around seven, and it's still much too early for him to stay awake. He soon drifts off to sleep to the sound of acoustic guitar.
Linhardt wakes to a gentle shake.
"Didn't expect you to fall asleep ten seconds into the trip," Caspar says, peering over at Linhardt's face at a distance which seems much to close.
Linhardt rubs his eyes and pushes Caspar back into the driver's seat with a hand to the chest. "Look."
"I'm looking."
Linhardt rolls his eyes. "I'm a sleepy man."
“Knew that a long time ago. We’re here, so naptime is over!” Caspar grins at him and claps Linhardt on the arm as he steps out of the truck.
Linhardt looks out the window and sees that, yes, they are indeed at the first stop that they'd agreed to a week ago.
After that night at the pond, which Linhardt remembers with bubbly, vague fondness, perhaps half induced by the amount of alcohol he had consumed before then, they had texted back and forth the next week to decide upon the route they were to take to Yellowstone.
Naturally, it would be a winding path that made no sense, but both of them knew they just wanted to fit an amusement park and a beach in there somewhere. And maybe Las Vegas. Linhardt was intrigued about the alcohol involved in that one.
"You should be tall enough to ride all the rides now," Linhardt says to Caspar when he gets out of the truck. "Probably."
"Hey!"
"It's okay, short king," Linhardt says with a laugh and slides his sunglasses down onto his face. "We love and respect you no matter what the size."
"Who's we?"
"I don't know, I learned how to talk like this from Dorothea."
Caspar ah's, as if the reference to their mutual friend in high school makes complete sense, then starts taking off towards the ticketed entrance.
It's been a while since they last came here. Back when Linhardt was little, he hated roller coasters. He didn't like the jumpy feeling in his stomach. He hated the crowds. He didn't even really like the funnel cake.
But, he agreed to come with him to this place for Caspar's eleventh birthday. Linhardt almost threw up on the teacups ride. He is here today to conquer those teacups, even if it took every muscle surrounding his gut to keep it down.
As Linhardt follows Caspar into the park, a roller coaster car rushes by their right. Loud shrieks pound Linhardt's ear for a split second before the passengers are carried away.
"What about that one? It looks like it could be a little warm up."
Without knowing why, Linhardt takes one look at Caspar, standing there with pit stains and his ugly boots and his wide grin, and agrees.
Linhardt stumbles off the ride, head spinning. He almost holds onto Caspar's arm to steady himself, but then he just decides to bend over and puts his hands on his knees instead.
"Dude," he manages to get out. "That wasn't a warmup."
Caspar just pats him on the back and says, "You should stand up. So as to not encourage vomiting."
"Okay, doctor," Linhardt says and straightens. "I'm going to be sitting...." he whirls around looking for a bench, "over there."
He then immediately turns on his heel and walks towards the purple bench that's shaded by a small tree. The tree isn't really doing much, as its leaves are sparse and letting the dappled New Mexico sun between its branches, but it'll have to do.
"Okay!" Caspar calls after him. "I'm going to the bathroom! You stay right here!"
Linhardt flashes Caspar a thumbs up without turning around and then plops on the bench with a sigh. The line for the bathroom should be long. Maybe there'll be time for a nap.
Linhardt tries to get comfortable on the bench, but it's near impossible, even for someone as talented as him. It's one of those metal ones that are coated with that rubbery plastic, with the holes in it the shape of roundish rhombi. Plus, the sun is right in his eyes, no matter which way he turns on the bench. Linhardt resigns himself to being unfortunately awake.
Caspar seemed to be having so much fun on that ride. He was laughing at Linhardt, who refused to scream, but instead had his lips clenched in what he imagines was a very thin, straight line. He was probably screaming with his eyes, though.
Caspar put his hands in the air, and then tried to reach over to pry Linhardt's hands from the bar to get him to join in. Huh. Linhardt places his left hand in his right and tries to recreate the feeling. A scientist does repeat trials for accuracy, after all. There was something about that touch. Maybe it was just that they haven't been close to each other for a few years. He just needs to get reacclimated.
Linhardt stares at the tree above him. Its leaves have holes in it. Linhardt expects it will probably die within the next year. Yeah, there's no sleeping here. The vibes are hostile to napping.
He sits up on the bench and then looks around for a map. He can't remember where the food stands are located, and he could really use some sorbet.
Linhardt is waiting in line to get his peach sorbet when he finally checks his phone. The line to even just place his order had taken forever, but that was okay, because it just gave Linhardt more time to decide he did indeed want peach sorbet.
He flicks on his phone and sees that four missed calls and five texts.
From: Caspar
Where are you??
From: Caspar
Did you get kidnapped or smth
From: Caspar
Did you leave??
From: Caspar
Linhardt bro
From: Caspar
Bro :(
These texts were all sent about one minute after the other. Linhardt can almost see Caspar spiraling. He sees a vision before him of Caspar jumping straight into a vortex.
To: Caspar
sorry, i forgot i was supposed to wait for you
From: Caspar
???
From: Caspar
Huh
To: Caspar
i'm at the ice cream stand
To: Caspar
Nvm, I see you
Linhardt sees Caspar's blue head of hair moving in anxious circles about a hundred feet away. "Caspar!" he calls and waves.
Caspar looks up from his phone and twists his head around like a dog that doesn't know which way a sound is coming from.
Linhardt just waves again until Caspar sees him, and when they meet eyes, it's like Caspar's relief shows in every feature of his body. Oh, that's almost gross.
"I thought you had left somehow," Caspar says when he walks over. “Or had, like, an accident.”
"I'm potty trained, actually."
"You know what I mean," Caspar huffs, and folds his arms.
Linhardt concedes. "Sorry. I was just hungry. I didn't think that you'd get back so soon from the bathroom."
"That's okay," Caspar says with a shrug. "Do you want to just take it slow for the rest of the day? We could do the ferris wheel. Maybe the teacups if you're up for it."
"You know," Linhardt starts. "I kind of hoped that I'd be different this time around? Like, I kind of hoped that I'd changed. It might be cool to be someone who likes roller coasters.”
"Some things don't change, I guess," Caspar shrugs again.
The cashier calls Linhardt’s order from the window, so he grabs his cup and thanks the girl, then looks at Caspar with raised eyebrows.
"You want some?"
Caspar shakes his head. "Why don't you eat that on the ferris wheel? Come on."
The two of them walk to the next ride, falling into place like they’re walking to the same metronome--left and right perfectly mirroring the other, and Linhardt will be damned if he says he notices it, but there's something sweet about it, how they’re still in tune. Linhardt slows down his pace just to break the rhythm. Maybe it's too sweet.
CASPAR → Arizona
The motel they stop at later that night in Arizona is just a place that Caspar finds around ten PM when he’s getting too tired to stay awake. Maybe he should’ve planned this trip out, he thinks. But then if he had planned it out, it would have almost felt like planning its end. He just wanted to take Linhardt and go.
He pulls up into the parking lot, Linhardt already asleep in the passenger seat.
“Hey,” Caspar says, shaking Linhardt awake. “Bed time.”
“I know ,” Linhardt says cattily, as if confirming that he was indeed asleep already, and why did Caspar wake him up?
Something like annoyance prickles in him. “Actual bed.”
Caspar gets out of the truck and starts carrying his stuff towards the entrance building, which is lit by a dim light.
“Wait for me!” he hears Linhardt call.
Maybe it’s because it’s late, and Caspar is tired, and his body aches from driving, and he’s all sunned out from the amusement park, but he can’t help but think that this is Linhardt’s way of saying thank you.
When Linhardt flicks on the light to their unit, Caspar is sure he sees at least three brown dots on the floor scuttle back into the wall. The room smells like mildew, somehow, and the faint scent of body odor. Dear god.
Linhardt doesn’t seem to have a problem with it, putting down his stuff and plopping onto the bed, but as soon as he hits the mattress, it makes an alarming creaking noise. Caspar hears a soft oof from the bedroom.
“I can take the sofa,” Caspar calls. He goes over to the couch to see if it’ll roll out into a sofa bed and instead finds crushed Doritos underneath the cushions. Okay. “Actually, I need to go out to the truck for a minute.”
Caspar leaves the room and Linhardt who he assumes is going to pass out any minute again, and steps into the dry air of Arizona nights. It’s almost cold, and Caspar hurries to the truck. He doesn’t know what he came out here for, but now that he’s here, he just wants to sit in the back of his truck and look at the sky.
No clouds tonight. Just a lot of stars.
He pulls back the cover, hoists himself up, and lays out a blanket he has in the back. Then propping his backpack up as a pillow, he stares into the sky. What was he thinking, bringing Linhardt all this way? Things are awkward between them, the years of distance showing. And Linhardt barely has anything to talk about in his life. It’s almost like he’s afraid of talking about college because Caspar didn’t go.
Caspar sighs. Sometimes he wishes Linhardt were just… different. Not even a thank you. Not even a sign that he was enjoying himself.
He’s not sure how long it’s been but his brain goes into a sort of fog. Like he’s just hypnotized by the stars into a state of calmness. He can’t wait to do this all summer in Yellowstone.
“Hey,” he hears.
Caspar looks up and finds Linhardt standing before him, silk pajama set and clutched pillow and all.
“I thought you would’ve been asleep by now.”
Linhardt shrugs. “Just wanted to check to make sure you weren’t abducted.”
Caspar cocks an eyebrow but says nothing.
“I,” Linhard starts again. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing,” Caspar says after a moment. “I’ll be back inside in a moment.”
Caspar can almost hear Linhardt thinking or wondering if he wants to press, but then Linhardt sighs softly. “You don’t have to sleep on the couch if you don’t want to. I saw the Doritos.”
“Thanks,” Caspar laughs. Then, Linhardt retreats back to the room and Caspar is left alone.
The stars make sense up there. They just shine without worrying about anything else, and that’s how he wants to be.
The next morning, Caspar wakes up alone in bed with his muscles stiff. When he’d finally gone back inside, Linhardt was fast asleep on the couch, brow furrowed in what Caspar could only guess was concentration.
They got into the car silently, and Caspar put on a playlist of soft music that he used to play on weekend mornings to slowly come to, those mornings when the day still feels yellow.
“I said I’d take the couch, you know,” Caspar says.
Linhardt has bags under his eyes and just shrugs. “You were more tired than me. And you need your space.”
Caspar doesn’t want to suggest that they could’ve slept in the same bed. Would that be weird? They used to do it all the time, but are things different now?
Linhardt falls asleep in the passenger seat soon after, putting his legs up against the window. Somehow, he manages to fit, even in Caspar’s cramped car.
Caspar looks over, then looks out at the quiet desert. It feels like this highway will last forever, and they’re just passing the same cacti in an endless loop. But he supposes that might not be too bad.
With Linhardt drooling a bit, his mouth hanging open, yellow Taco Bell shirt covered partially by a blanket he stole from the motel, things are peaceful.
LINHARDT → California
When Linhardt wakes, the smell of the sea has permeated the car.
He yawns. “How long was I out?”
“A while,” Caspar replies. “You didn’t even wake up when I stopped at a rest stop.”
Linhardt sits upright and gives his legs a good stretch. He hadn’t gotten that much sleep last night on that couch, and the sleep that he did get was fitful. He spent most of the night thinking about what to do next.
Caspar and he were supposed to part after they got to Santa Monica, and Linhardt was going to take a plane from LA to fly back home. And then his little summer fun would be over. And he would go back to trying to find a job. And Caspar would be in Yellowstone, having fun. He always seemed to know what he wanted to do.
“I think we should book a hotel tonight,” Linhardt says, yawning again. “I can do it.”
Linhardt notices Caspar fidget.
“I can… split it, you know.”
“No, you got last night, it’s okay.”
“Last night was forty dollars.”
Linhardt looks over at Caspar and frowns. “Just let me do this, okay? Just let me help for once.”
He winces as soon as it comes out.
“I’m not, like, poor. ”
“I know you’re not!” Linhardt gesticulates. “But you’re paying for the gas, this is your car, you’re driving the whole time… this is my contribution.”
Caspar grumbles something under his breath and then gets out of the car. “Let’s just enjoy the day.”
Linhardt follows and the breeze hits his face immediately with that salty smell of the sea. It’s been a while since he’s gone to the beach, and it’s perfect.
“Race you,” Caspar says.
“You don’t even know where you’re going ,” Linhardt laughs.
“Don’t need to.”
And then he takes off. Linhardt follows, always follows.
And then he suddenly remembers that time when they were kids, that time his family had taken Caspar with them to their beach home. They must not have been older than twelve. They started on different bunks and somehow ended up on the same one. Caspar found a conch on the beach and then promptly broke it on the bathroom tile. Linhardt helped him clean up the mess. It’s hard to let go. But it’s hard to remember when years act like a fog.
“Wait for me!’ Linhardt yells again, but Caspar is running. “Don’t you want to bring the cooler?”
Caspar stops, looks back. His eyes are saying, I’ve always been waiting, even when my own life was running ahead. Or maybe Linhardt is imagining it.
“You always do this!” Linhardt says again. “Help me!”
And Caspar ambles back slowly, brushing back his blue hair with a laugh, and Linhardt meets him halfway, lugging the blue cooler with him.
“Say, is Yellowstone still hiring?”