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There was silence as they drove home in the no longer stolen car.
Not his home. Ted's home. The home Ted had opened to him. The only place that had really felt like home in years. He'd known it wouldn't last, though. Sympathy had an expiry date, and the moment people realised he wasn't going to get his shit together their patience ran out and they got fed up of watching him spiral downwards. Ted would have been just the same, eventually.
So instead of waiting for the truth to sink in slowly, he decided to get it over and done with. He grabbed all the cash from Ted's wallet, picked up Ted's car keys from the hook by the front door and left.
Ted would be better off, in the long run. He'd learn to stop being so naively trusting.
Except things hadn't quite gone to plan, and it was only when he was sure that he was going to be going back to prison that he had realised how much he really really didn't want to go back to prison.
But Ted had fixed it. Ted with his easy, charming smiles and his casual confidence had waved his hands and cracked a few jokes and the danger was gone. Just like that.
And now they sat in silence while Ted drove the car he had tried to steal back to the home he didn't deserve.
The silence was agonising, but he would not be the one to break it. He would wait for Ted to say something, however long that took. There were lots of different ways this conversation could go, and he had heard them all many times from many different people.
Maybe Ted would yell. Yelling was the easiest. He deserved to be yelled at, and he could just let it wash over him until it was done.
But Ted wasn't really the yelling type. Maybe he would lecture instead. Talk about the importance of honesty and integrity and doing good in the world.
Or maybe he would point out what a huge favour he had just done.
"You owe me," he would say, "You have to get your life together now. You've been given a second chance and you have to prove that you deserve it."
The silence continued.
Maybe this was the punishment. Maybe Ted would never speak to him again. Maybe he would drop him off at a bus stop somewhere and they would part in silence and that would be that. Another bridge burned. Another friendship ended. Another fresh start tossed carelessly away.
"Mexican or Italian?" Ted asked eventually, when the silence had stretched out for so long he thought he might scream.
"What?"
"You fancy Mexican or Italian tonight? Personally I could really go for some pasta, but I know you're partial to a pinch of spice."
There wasn't even a hint of tension in Ted's voice, and in that moment he realised two things with terrifying clarity.
One: he isn't going to hold this over me. He's going to keep offering me his friendship, unconditionally, over and over again, because that's what Ted does.
And two: I am going to spend the rest of my life trying to deserve him.
But he didn't say this out loud. For a moment he wasn't sure he was going to be able to say anything out loud; his throat was tight and he thought his voice might break completely if he tried to utter a single word. He swallowed, and took a few deep breaths.
"Italian sounds good."