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It's seven A.M. They've been on the road for a little more than an hour and a half, sun just barely over the horizon, and what Bob's doing finally hits him like a stone through the windshield.
He's in a van - he's in the passenger seat of a van with someone he's known for barely three weeks, a duffle bag full of odds and ends he'd swept off his dresser with little care about what actually came along clutched against his chest. There's two luggage cases with his mother's name on the tags jostling around in the back, threatening to open up and dump his plaid shirts and khakis amongst Helmut's half-finished knitting projects and brightly patterned sweaters.
And Helmut, he's acting like this is all on par for the course, like he's let plenty of nearly strangers tag along with him. He'd been pretty chatty for the first few miles but now he's settling in, quieter, tapping his fingers along to whatever cassette he just put in. Bob watches his hands, the wheel, the pleased look of concentration he has on the road ahead. He's going to be sick.
"Stop the car," he says, his arms squeezing the bag in his lap. Helmut glances over, goes back to the road, double takes.
"Wh- you alright, Bobby?"
"Stop the van, please." Bob's eyes shut as he feels the Feel Mobile slow and drift towards the shoulder. By the time it stops his seatbelt's already off and he's swinging his legs out the door, luggage back on his seat. He doesn't go far - maybe ten steps to the grass instead of asphalt, then he sits, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his suddenly red face. There's no tears yet, but he can feel a sob bubbling in his throat, dam readying to burst with every shaky breath.
He shouldn't be here.
He should be at the greenhouse, getting ready for winter. Checking heat lamps and well water, repotting whatever he can to bring inside, tucking saplings away from the cold. He didn't even pack any planters. People were going to talk about him - like they didn't already - about what a thoughtless decision this was, running away from everything, his plants, his home, and how could Tia's boy do this to them? To her? Leaving the greenhouse to rot and fall apart season after season. His throat itches; he needs...
A hand sets gently on his back. "Bob?"
His vision's blurry, but he doesn't need his glasses to see the concern on Helmut's face as he moves closer. He sits with a little "ow" - the grass around them, once soft, now bristles and sharpens around Bob where it's not curling towards his ankles. Bob sniffs, head turned away. "I'm sorry, Helmut."
"Sorry for what?" His hand pulls away, hovering over the still sharp grass before resting on his own thigh. "Even if you hadn't said anything, I still would've pulled over. You looked pretty bad-"
"Not that," Bob starts, "I mean - yes, that, and having to sit here, and everything else..." Another sniff. "I don't think I can do this."
"Like, the drive? I know it's long, sorry, but we can take breaks if you want? Or stop before it gets dark?"
"No, just... All of this. I can't come with you." He's still not looking at Helmut while he speaks, gripping his sleeves. Blades of grass twist themselves around his shoes. "It's too much. I just left all those plants, and the people... And I've never been outside of the valley. I didn't even like being there. What if everywhere else is just as bad?
There's a pause, silence filled only by Bob's heavy breathing and the rush of wind from other cars passing. The hand on his back slides to his shoulder so Helmut's arm can wrap around him. "Bobby - Bob, I am so sorry about this."
Bob stills. Another moment of silence, then they both shift, minute, leaning towards each other. "I didn't mean to push you into this." He didn't. "I thought that maybe leaving the Gulch would be good for you. Get you out and experiencing some new stuff, you know?" Helmut huffs, and from the corner of his eye, Bob watches him brush his hair behind his ear. "But if you get overwhelmed, that's a really bad first impression of the rest of the world. And I don't want to make things worse." The hand slips away. "I don't mind driving you back."
"I don't want to make you do that-"
"You wouldn't be making me do it! If you really want to go home, I'll take you, no questions asked." Bob finally turns to look back at him, hands dropping from his own arms to let one rest next to Helmut. There's no heartbreak on his face, just sincere concern. It makes Bob's chest tighten.
"What about getting to San Francisco? You have a schedule to keep."
"That I made, yeah, so I don't care if I'm a little late. And driving you back wouldn't be too big of a loss." Going back to the Gulch would mean he'd be losing over two hours, and they weren't even at the border yet. Bob turns his head away again and wipes at his face with his free hand. "... I can give you a couple minutes to think?"
"Yes, please. Thank you." He feels Helmut stand with another "ow," hears him walk back to the Feel Mobile and open its rear doors. His hands run through his hair, meeting at the back as his head drops. The grass curls around him ever tighter.
The thought of wasting Helmut's time hadn't even come up - stupid, selfish him. Bob knows the drive back would be torture, and the departure... He'd gotten so upset at the thought of Helmut leaving before, what's he supposed to do now? Ask him to stay in a tiny two bedroom house outside of a stagnant town in the middle of the woods? He couldn't do that to him. Helmut deserves to be on a stage in big, fancy city; not tied down in the middle of nowhere. His eyes squeeze shut, fingers digging into the back of his head.
Upbeat guitar and tambourine knock him out of his thoughts. Bob's head lifts at that and the following harpsichord, glancing back towards the van.
Helmut's playing one of his cassettes. He doesn't even remember giving it to him. The gears in his head turn, memories returning of when they swapped music. It hadn't really meant anything before, but now, he guesses, if Helmut hasn't returned them, the cassettes sort of count as a gift. His face reddens at the thought; what kind of guy gives a going away present to someone he's only known for three weeks?
But Helmut had given him something too, just before he left - a guitar pick, signed with his stage name. He'd tucked it away in his breast pocket, given Helmut the flower from his lapel in return, and after getting back home, had held the pick to his chest while he struggled to sleep. It stayed in his hands when he packed, it dug into his palm as he climbed into the van with Helmut, and if he looks right now, Bob's sure that the leftover impression will still show up red against said palm's heel.
For a minute, he just sits there, listening to the muffled Simon & Garfunkel coming from the Feel Mobile. Helmut's probably worried sick. He's sweet like that, feeling so strongly about someone he's known for such a short amount of time. Especially in a new town, a place he was only passing through...
There's that familiar psychic hum as his brain attempts to click everything together. Helmut's new - or, at least, he's from outside the valley - and the two of them had gotten along almost instantly. He's so different from everyone Bob's ever known, all bright colors and loud music and open psychic abilities, and he likes that.
Grass loosens around his ankles, curling in on themselves. Sharp blades begin to soften in the wind.
He's introduced him to so many things already; new bands, another psychic, the idea to just leave. Maybe...
Maybe, if the rest of the world is anything like Helmut, he'll be okay. Maybe it'll be too loud, or hard to look at, or frightening in a way that shakes his very foundations. Maybe people will still talk about him like they did in the valley. Maybe worse, if he's an outsider.
His head turns, looking back towards the Feel Mobile as more subdued guitar hums out from its doors. He can see feet kicking a little at the asphalt. Helmut's probably just sitting there, waiting for the cassette to finish or for Bob to come tell him his decision, whatever comes first. He sniffs.
Maybe if he's got Helmut with him, he'll be okay.
Bob stands slowly, wiping his glasses off on his shirt. The grass waves at him as he walks back to the Feel Mobile. Good luck, take care, we'll be here if you need us.
Helmut is sitting and twiddling his thumbs, just like he thought he'd be, and looking out towards the road. Colorful little swirls escape from around his head and fade out just as quickly. Bob inhales, clenches his fists, unclenches, and sits down beside him.
"Hi."
Helmut starts a little, and his beanie gets knocked off center with how fast he turns. A single exclamation point pops out beside his head. "Bobby! Bob - are you okay? Everything alright?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay." Helmut eases up a little and turns so he's better facing him. His hands tense, then reach out to take Bob's, one of his sliding between both palms. "I just... Had to think, for a little."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"And? ... What're you gonna do?" Physic abilities or not, Bob can feel the concern coming off him in waves. His free hand lifts, settles over Helmut's.
"I think... I'm going to try."
"Going to try...?" Helmut leans in, just a touch. Tense as this is, Bob can't help but duck his head to hide a smile, squeezing his hand. He's so worried.
"I'm going to try leaving, with you. I don't know how well I'll do, or how long this'll last, but..." Another squeeze. His head lifts, eyes meeting Helmut's, the smile he gives hopefully reassuring. "I want to try."
Helmut, to his credit, waits until he finishes speaking to pull him into a hug that knocks the wind out of him. Bob knows that was probably difficult for him even as he feels his spine get realigned. "That's great! I don't want to make you do anything - again - but I think this is gonna be really good for you. For both of us!" He drops Bob, unceremoniously, back onto the bumper and lets him fix his glasses before clapping a hand on his shoulder. "But my offer to drive you back isn't going anywhere either. If you ever want to stop and head home - now, or in a week, or whenever - I can turn around and drop you off, no problem. I mean it."
"I know, Helmut. And thank you." His hand lays over Helmut's own, pulling it off him. "And we might still have to go slow."
"No problem!"
"Not stopping early or anything, just-"
"Frequent stops?"
"Yeah. At least for a little while."
"I can do that!"
"Helmut?"
"Yeah?"
It's Bob's turn to hug him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. "Thanks, again." He feels Helmut exhale, and gets a one-armed squeeze before he pulls away.
"Of course. You'll tell me if you need anything else, right?" And Bob nods, following Helmut as he hops out out of the back and shuts the doors, Simon & Garfunkel still playing. "Alright. Then let's get this show back on the road!"