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Driver believes he and Luke are similar in many ways, including how their pasts remain untouched. No questions asked, no stories told.
There is an almost astonishing tacit understanding between them, as if they are twins sharing a deeply aligned will. However, this is merely Driver's secret thought; he never lets Luke know, nor would he ever dare to let Luke notice.
He keeps this secret thought locked deep inside, only letting it spill out cautiously when loneliness or weakness becomes too heavy to suppress. He indulges in that sweet warmth, a feeling that makes his body feel light, much like driving at night, only far more profound.
But everything comes at a price. Afterward, Driver feels overwhelmingly ashamed, unable to shake the thought that he has overstepped.
Driver thinks: Maybe I'm just greedy, because he yearns for even more than this.
It is probably due to adrenaline; otherwise, it would be difficult to explain what happens next. They never speak of their lives before they met, but today, Luke breaks the silence.
An hour after the robbery, in a rundown, remote motel, Luke sits cross legged on the tacky carpet, counting the cash in the bag.
Luke's bleached blonde hair remains striking even in the dim light of the room. Driver stands by the window, exhaustion slowly eroding his focus, yet he forces himself to stay sharp. His gaze slips through the slats of the blinds, watching everything outside and monitoring the ramp that leads to the interstate. Yet against his will, his attention drifts back to Luke time and time again. He notices Luke's large hands, still trembling uncontrollably from the rush of the robbery.
Luke counts the bills over and over until he is satisfied. Then he motions for Driver to come over. The moment Driver is within reach, Luke pulls him close by the shoulder, sending them both tumbling onto the mattress.
He yanks out his pistol and tosses it aside, where it barely lands on the edge of the bed. Then the scent of sweat and tobacco floods Driver's senses as Luke's hot, solid body presses against him, piercing through his heavy drowsiness like a searchlight cutting through fog.
Luke leans in close, his warm breath brushing against Driver, his voice trembling with that same adrenaline.
He says...
"I have a son." Luke pauses for a moment, his long eyelashes casting a shadow beneath his eyes. "Jason. That's his name."
Driver blinks, processing the revelation in silence. Later, as Luke opens up further, Driver learns that the boy has inherited Luke's blonde hair and blue eyes.
"But he's better than me, way better."
My son is a blessed child, bathed in the Father's love and grace. Luke tells Driver that although he wasn't invited, he couldn't let himself miss Jason's baptism. So he snuck into the church, sitting in a pew at the back, where tears of joint joy and remorse welled up and spilled over.
That raw emotion hasn't faded. Right now, Luke's deep blue eyes reflect a heavy mix of grief and shame, but Driver catches the undeniable flicker of pride glowing within them.
Luke tells Driver that this stolen cash can pay for his son's college education to make him a lawyer, a banker, a rich, respected man who can have whatever he wants. But then, maybe he doesn't need all that. As long as the boy is happy, nothing else really matters.
Just as long as he doesn't turn out like me. Luke says.
Like Luke? What does that even mean? Driver ponders, yet remains silent, just as Luke has grown used to. The fading adrenaline leaves Driver feeling even more drowsy, his mind blurring at the edges, but he forces his heavy eyelids open, trying to force himself alert. He thinks to himself:
Does being like Luke mean striking like lightning through a pitch black sky? Swift, decisive, reckless, driven by an energy so chaotic, but pure?
That's a good thing, Driver thinks. Luke is wonderful, and I admire everything about him, the good and the bad. Still, he says nothing. He simply pulls off his glove, using his thumb to gently wipe away those warm tears.
"I don't want him to know about me," Luke whispers, his voice laced with unmistakable vulnerability. The faint trembling of his lips catches Driver's gaze.
"He deserves so much—so much better—fuck it." Luke cuts himself off sharply, his raspy voice dying out like a stalling engine.
Driver doesn't think of his father, or the man who raised him later. He never thinks of them. Instead, he thinks of Shannon, and then of Benicio and Standard.
In fact, Driver respects Standard. The man had made his share of mistakes, but he was still a good husband and a good father who truly cared for and cherished his family, loving Irene and Benicio with his whole heart until the very moment it stopped beating.
Driver remembers the tearful look in the man's eyes as he stared at his wife and son across the dinner table. The joy and regret in that gaze were the exact reasons Driver decided to help him.
Even if everything went wrong in the end, and Driver failed to protect that family.
Standard dies right in front of Driver, but he will never be forgotten. His bullet riddled body will eventually rot, yet his memory will live on forever. Meanwhile, everything about Driver will fade with time. Those afternoon drives and late night trips, even that kiss in the elevator, will drift away from Irene's memory. Benicio will forget the TV shows they watched together, and the staring contests they played.
That is a profound bond, the one between father and son, where blood runs thick. Even if Luke made mistakes (and really, what did Luke do wrong?), there remains an indelible tie between Luke and his boy.
An unfamiliar emotion weighs on Driver's chest like an immovable boulder, leaving him restless. He suddenly realizes with crystal clarity that this is no longer about Irene and Benicio, or anything from his past.
Driver has been looking toward the future for a while now, no longer dwelling on what's gone. Even though he is someone who can simply bury his past, he still tried to keep the memories of Los Angeles lingering a little longer.
But now, he is willing to let go, because the anchor in his life has been replaced by Luke.
Luke's confession continues to haunt Driver, swirling into a knot of emotions he can barely untangle. He can't help thinking how simple life would be if it were like repairing a car, with systematic checks, part replacements, and more checks, until the trouble is finally cleared away.
Still, he can't stop himself from wondering: what if he and Luke were born from the very same womb? Or, better yet, what if he were of Luke's own blood? Would there still be any distance left between them?
If they shared that deep rooted bond, an inseparable closeness, could the loneliness that has burned so fiercely inside him for so long finally be extinguished?
Would he finally feel whole?
A shared womb? Blood relation? Driver has no idea why these thoughts are creeping into his head, these bizarre, morbid fantasies.
What is wrong with me? he thinks. It has to be the lack of sleep, straining his mind to the breaking point. He needs rest. Even a machine can't keep running without eventually misfiring.
That painful shame and guilt keep burning through him, flushing his cheeks and leaving him deeply unnerved. Hands resting at his sides clench into fists, knuckles turning white, trembling ever so slightly.
So in the end, Driver only manages to say stiffly, "You are still his father."
Driver is lucky. Luke doesn't notice anything wrong, nor does he get angry at Driver's presumptuous answer.
Luke simply pulls back his gaze, one Driver can barely decipher, then grabs the hem of his vest and lifts his arms. The vest lands casually on the carpet, and Driver feels himself wrapped in those strong arms once again. This time, Luke's body heat, always slightly warmer than his own, is impossible to ignore. That raw, spicy scent washes over him even more fiercely, overpowering the room's damp mustiness and the sharp detergent smell of the mattress, enveloping Driver completely.
They sink back onto the mattress together. Luke's tattoos remain clear under the dim light, his eyes still bright and alive.
Their eyes are a similar shade, only Luke's are deeper. Right now, there is almost a faint green glow around his irises, reminding Driver of a lush forest beneath hazy purple blue moonlight just after sunset. Luke is the first to break eye contact. His gaze shifts downward, settling on the lower half of Driver's face. Below the nose. Lips, Driver thinks.
Driver swallows hard, waiting in silence, but Luke does nothing. Disappointment settles like lead in Driver's stomach, his brow furrowing in a low, heavy frown.
"You look terrible, like you haven't slept a wink," Luke says, a hint of a smile finally returning to his voice. His right hand, which had been stroking Driver's cheekbone, slides into his hair, calloused fingertips gently massaging Driver's scalp. It leaves Driver shocked and deeply frustrated, because Luke soothes away all his disappointment and tension with nothing more than that simple touch.
Driver doesn't try to dodge Luke's implied question. "I couldn't stop thinking about today's plan," he replies softly.
Last night, Driver tossed and turned in bed. Even when he managed to drift off, he would wake with a start soon after. In the end, he put a stop to the restless cycle and forced himself to focus solely on the plan, running through every detail in his head for anything missed and mapping out alternative scenarios.
At the end of the day, he is worried about Luke.
A raspy laugh rumbles deep in Luke's throat, sending vibrations through his chest that echo straight into Driver's heart. "Are you worried about me?" Luke asks.
Driver hesitates, but finally nods.
"Hey, forget about it. Look at me, do I look worried? Nah. I'll do my job, and you'll get us outta there clean. Simple as that. I trust you, man." Luke strokes back Driver's messy bangs and grins, his handsome face radiating a dazzling confidence, exact to the day Driver first met him at the carnival. Back then, sitting atop his idling motorcycle, Luke pulled off his helmet amidst deafening cheers, his face flushed with tension and thrill, wearing that exact same look.
A sudden flutter in his chest throws Driver off, but then his brow furrows involuntarily.
Driver never second guesses his driving. The car is an extension of his body, and all he ever needs to do is rely on instinct and drive. But with Luke in the picture, the variables multiply. Driver feels he has yet to properly adjust, to factor another person into every move he makes, to factor Luke in.
Worry is never a bad thing, it keeps his edge sharp. What brings Driver shame, however, is that he cannot deny how deeply Luke's trust fills him with joy.
"I'll do my best," he finally says.
Driver doesn't think he said anything humorous, but Luke smiles again anyway. The older man squints, his sharp canine teeth fully on display, his warm, solid frame trembling with low laughter. Driver is confused, but he loves seeing Luke smile, so the corners of his own mouth curl up unconsciously.
It takes Luke a while to quiet his laughter. "God..." He clears his throat, then mumbles, "Go to sleep, yeah? You can hold me, if that helps."
The sudden burst of joy inside Driver makes his head spin. He blinks, then slowly reaches out to wrap his arms around Luke, his palm resting lightly against the man's broad back with careful restraint.
But Luke pulls him in tighter. Their legs intertwine, chests pressed together, their warm breath mingling in the dark. Luke smells of leather and tobacco, like pine and wet earth after rain.
A sense of peace settles over Driver. At first, he meant to wash off the grimy stickiness before getting any real sleep, but Luke is holding him now. Lying together on the bed, sleepiness washes over him like a wave, making that urge fade into nothing.
He thinks of the Los Angeles River, the concrete channel shimmering under the blazing afternoon sun of the City of Angels. Maybe one day he can take Luke there. Someday.
Driver can almost see it, the water's reflection and the golden patches of light filtering through the trees, weaving together across Luke's face. A beautiful sight.
Outside, a gentle drizzle begins to fall, tapping softly against every surface with a steady, quiet pitter patter.
Luke's voice cuts through the illusion once more. "You asleep?"
"No," Driver murmurs. His eyelids are too heavy to keep open, sleep having already pulled him halfway between dreams and reality.
Luke strokes Driver's cheek absently with his calloused hand. "Not to brag," he goes on, "but I sang a lullaby to my boy once. He wouldn't stop crying, but not long after I started, he went right out. Guess I wasn't too bad at it."
Driver isn't sure why Luke brings this up, but he is glad to listen, as always. He hums softly in reply to show he is still listening and agrees. Truth is, Luke has a nice voice, warm and rich. On days when Luke is in a good mood, he will tap his thighs along to the radio, humming to the tunes.
Just as Driver thinks the conversation is over, Luke speaks up again. "If you want, I can sing for you too," he whispers, his low voice cutting back through the haze clear and close.
Luke's words send Driver's heart racing, those thoughts breaking to the surface once more. If he really were Luke's...
Driver wraps his arms tight around Luke's waist, burying his cheek into the crook of his damp neck. He breathes in deep, taking in that blend of tobacco and pine, letting the scent fill his chest.
Letting the reality wash over him again and again, that here in this space, there is only him and Luke. Only Luke.
"Yes," he murmurs. "Please."