This isn't weird.

Flashbacks

A ray of hope shone briefly on Ben's evening when it became apparent that none of Walt's hats came anywhere close to fitting him (the man's head was as enormous as the rest of him), but it was quickly extinguished by Hoyt, who didn't wear one habitually, but nevertheless kept a bone-colored Stetson on hand for formal occasions. Tragically, their craniums proved to be of identical size, and just as Hoyt had predicted, it was a fight that Ben could not win.

He felt fucking ridiculous.

"I'll wear it," Ben huffed, "but only if you can promise me no pictures."

He hadn't even finished the sentence before Walt had grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him into a surprise selfie, in which only one of them was smiling. Ben hadn't even seen him take out his phone; he seemed to materialize it from the ether.

"Is he always like this?" Ben asked.

Hoyt looked at him dourly. "Always."

Hearing a soft ding coming from his pocket, Ben took out his phone to see a notification that he'd been tagged in a photo on Instagram. He flashed Walt a stricken look. "I must have done something truly terrible in a past life."

"Hogwash! You look adorable," Walt replied. Sifting through the contents of Ben's travel bag (how had he even gotten his hands on it? It had just been in another room), he pulled out a red and black flannel with a triumphant "A-ha!" He held it up in front of Ben. "This'll do the trick."

"It's not even clean," Ben protested.

"Smells fine."

"Stop smelling my clothes!"

"I wouldn't have to, if you washed'um."

"I've been driving for days!"

"Excuses, excuses. You gonna wear it or not?"

"Fine, but only because it's my favorite shirt."

"A man of fine taste! Hoyt has almost the exact same one. Ooh! You should put it on, hon, y'all could wear matching outfits!"

Hoyt's only response was a long, blank stare.

"...or you can just wear that," Walt said sheepishly, reaching over to dust off the shoulder of his husband's faded t-shirt.

"Wait, how come I have to change and he doesn't?" Ben protested.

"Careful, son," Hoyt said. "I learned the hard way, arguin' puts him in the mood to accessorize."

"Sorry," Ben said with a grimace. He snatched the shirt from Walt and pasted on a smile. "What I meant to say was, I can't wait to put this on!"

"Now, that's more like it," Walt said.

After four consecutive days of driving, Ben wanted nothing more than to collapse on some cushy piece of furniture and luxuriate in the stillness, but his petty preferences were no match for Walt's overbearing enthusiasm. It had its own gravity—a bedazzled black hole swallowing up all the negativity in the room and shredding objections into incandescent streamers; his boyish grin was an event horizon from which there was no escape. Millie had compared the two of them once, noting specifically his energy, and Ben wondered now if this was what their friendship was like for her. All the little adventures he had roped her into, his over-the-top excitement when he introduced her to the things he loved. He sort of hoped so.

As they piled into the smaller of the red trucks, he had the consolation of knowing that the bar was nearby, so it would be only a brief drive, but when the cartoonishly Texan saloon came into view, the truck didn't slow down. Hoyt drove right past it.