Work Text:
How disgraceful. The mirror reflected the pitiful display, Travis's somber visage emphasized by his injured eye, blotched in grotesque red and purple. It had a horrible gleam, the sclera dotted with ruptured blood vessels. He dabbed the cold compress onto it, though couldn't hold it there too long, lest the ache twinge with more intense pain.
He was to blame for it, really, enraging his father as he did. If not for him taking glimpses at one of the altar boys during mass, his father would not have reprimanded him for gazing onto another male with "sinful eyes". This was his punishment. He should have kept his eyes to himself. How imprudent of him.
He hadn't thought he had looked at the other in such a way, but if father believed so, he must have, and thus felt a disgust wrenching within himself. He tried so, so hard not to behave out of line--not to displease God. He abhorred these compulsions of his, he really did. He just knew there was a special Hell waiting for him when he passed.
But he didn't want to think about that. He couldn't, he would cry again.
With a shudder and a sniffle, he tried to focus on nursing his injury rather than dwell. But then, he heard a tentative knock on the door. "Travis?" his mother called. "Are you alright, sweetie?"
Of course he wasn't. But he replied with a quick "I'm fine, mom!" anyways. He wouldn't dare address his issues with her. Though she upheld the guise of a sympathetic, supportive mother, she remained dismissive ultimately. Never once had she genuinely helped him through his difficulties. She only patronized. If he were to tell her the reason his father had struck him, she would conclude "your father is mistaken--surely, you hold no such gaze for other boys", as she had done ad infinitum. His father was never condemned for his abuses, nor did his mother concern herself with rescuing him. All she had ever done was spectate in the distance, or turn a blind eye.
She lingered at the door for one last second, before Travis heard her footsteps receding.
His heart clenching, Travis perched himself on the toilet seat and sobbed once more.
.....
He thought to steal some of his mother's cosmetics to conceal the injury, but with better conscience, decided firmly against it. If his father had caught him applying make-up, then, without doubt, he would have to endure a beating worse than yesterday's. It didn't matter either way. He could arrive at school with blood dripping from each of his face's orifices, and none would think anything of it, problem child as he was. This simple black eye, he told himself, would be regarded as him getting into another fight, and nothing more.
The morning was difficult. His inner thoughts fixated on Sunday's incident, and Mrs. Packerton's class especially proved to be challenging. Monday, to Travis's dismay, was a day of surprise tests. His focus was unwell with his bleary, watery eye, and the numbers blurred and morphed on the page.
It was then his vehement yet fruitless focus was broken.
"Excuse me, Mr. Fisher," called Mrs. Packerton in her syrupy voice. "...Sal, wake up!"
Sal Fisher--famously known by the ridiculous nickname of "Sally Face"--jolted awake at his desk. He exchanged a few words with the teacher. She told him not to doze despite finishing, and acing, the test.
Travis's attention was seized by the newfound distraction, and he glanced over his shoulder to the blue-haired freak. He clenched his pencil tighter, knuckles paling. Every mention of the boy managed to aggravate him with a particular temper. The reasons why remained unclear. All he knew was that he hated Sal's stupid, feminine pigtails and that invariable mask with its expressionless, sullen moue. His eyebrows pinched in frustration.
"And, Mr. Phelps," added Packerton, "eyes on your own paper."
With attention brought onto the other, Sal's blue eyes flicked to him from beneath the lifeless cavities of the mask. Humiliated about having been caught staring, Travis hunched back over his paper with a grunt, his face burning with embarrassment. His father's words reverberated within his head.
By the end of class, he submitted his test with barely half of it completed. He wore an impassive expression, to not betray his bitterness.
.....
He didn't know what possessed him to stalk after Sal once the bell rang. Last night's circumstance no longer simmered within him, but boiled--he resisted the urge to punch the wall, his fists twitching. He needed to redirect his hatred somehow, and did so in the worst possible way.
"Hey, freak!" he called after Sal. "Nobody likes a goody two-shoes, Saaally Face!" There was an extra dose of venom within that idiotic nickname. How dare Sal exhibit his aptitude in class, when his own test was ruined because of the pain piercing his eye. It wasn't fair.
"Nobody likes a cliché bully, Traaavis." He mimicked the offensive tone Travis used, though otherwise remained insouciant.
The girl from Sal's clique--Ashley--peered at him from over his shoulder and, hand on hip, shot him a glare. "Don't you have something better to do with yourself?" she asked, clearly vexed.
"Shut up, bitch!" barked Travis. "I wasn't talking to you!" She intervened where her input wasn't due. This was between him and princess pigtails, not his little white knight. He grimaced at the very sight of her. It made his eye throb more. Fuck.
"Y'know, Travis," said Sal, his tone evolving into a patronizing one, "maybe if you pulled that stick out of your ass, you might enjoy yourself for once. Maybe even make a friend or two."
His stomach lurched. How dare he--how dare he work salt into an aged wound. He was so, so alone with himself, with not a single soul to call a friend. He knew this. And it hurt. "Fuck off, faggot! I have more friends than you'll ever have!" A lie. Tears pricked at his eyes. His battered one ached anew.
Sal snorted. "You kiss your daddy with that tongue? I'm sure he--"
Travis's fist flew into Sal's face with all of the malevolent strength he could muster. Sal's mask slammed into whatever mangled mess lay beneath, and blood collected at the edge, thereon dripping from his chin. This was his sick, cowardice retribution.
Ashley hastened to console her friend, and Travis fled in the opposite direction.
.....
The lunch of the day was bologna sandwiches, his favorite. It called to mind the brand of bologna his father purchased from an unknown friend--in fact, it tasted exactly like it. This invoked reminiscence to all of the days wherein he would fix himself a supper of bologna sandwiches whenever his father withheld dinner from him. At least something positive derived from his suffering. He silently thanked whoever was responsible for the meatstuffs for getting him through the rougher days.
Technically, rather than eating lunch, he was supposed to be distributing Church pamphlets to advertise his father's preachings. But he couldn't bring himself to care today. Nobody ever accepted one, anyways. His peers had only ever mocked him for toting his father's business to school--filthy heretics, as they were. (He kept them visible on the tabletop beside him, though, just in case some fool out there had a change in heart.)
Halfway through munching his sandwich, a twinge of guilt manifested itself within him as he thought back to punching Sal. Truthfully, he didn't want to be a violent person, and yearned for better management of his own emotions. Yet still, he could not control his impulses. The more the incident replayed in his brain, the tighter his chest became. The guilt was unaccounted for. Sal deserved what was dealt. How-fucking-dare he insinuate he kissed his father--or any man, for that matter. Travis only hated himself every day--every waking hour--for his sinful, repressed desires. Sal not only worked salt into his wounds. Oh, no. He was slashing them open anew.
Sal didn't know shit about him. He was ignorant on how Travis viewed him, for Sal himself only saw him as an unmerited bully unworthy of redemption and empathy. If only he truly knew. If only he--
Travis suddenly found it difficult to swallow that bite of sandwich.
And then.
"Hey, Travis." The voice that he desired least of all to hear at the moment.
He glared up from where he sat, looking right at none other than Sal-fucking-Fisher and his meth-head friend, Larry. Travis despised Larry, too, and the sentiment was mutual. He believed he and Sal had something more than friendship, and loathed him all the more for it.
"I thought I smelled trash," he sneered. "What are you flamers up to?"
Larry flipped him the bird. "Get bent, Travis."
"Don't you have sandwiches to attend to?" asked Sal, not amused in the slightest.
Travis wasn't about to waste his breath bickering with the pair. They approached him first, and, once again, turned everything around onto him. "You're lucky it's bologna day," he grumbled. He averted his eyes downward to his tray until they received the message, and left.
And at once, all over again, a bigger lump developed in his throat and his eyes stung. He didn't know why. Then, he aggressively consumed the remainder of his sandwich, and shoved the pamphlets into his backpack. With a rush, he departed the cafeteria and charged into the boys' bathroom.
.....
"You probably hate me, and that's okay, I deserve it," he mumbled. "No, no. Fuck." He scribbled out the written words, and exhaled.
The bathroom, aside from himself, was empty. Thereupon the floor he sat, positioned between trash can and sink. In his lap his journal laid, his pen writing in a furious scrawl. He clutched and tugged his blond hair in frustration.
He thought that, perhaps, expressing his emotions on paper would help him. It didn't. It only infuriated him further. As one who always bottled up his feeling until they overflowed, articulating them was something he was purely unaccustomed to. He was taught that boys should be strong, brave. Not a godforsaken crybaby coward.
"Let's... let's try this again," he muttered, the weariness evident in his voice. "I actually think your pigtails are neat, and they're a pleasant shade of blue--No, Travis, that's fucking creepy. You don't start a letter commenting on someone's fucking hair."
A few more attempts at writing something eloquent were had, all of which were ultimately discarded. He settled on something partially decent. The letter opened with an address of their differences, along with his futile, hopeful wishing. His admiration and passion was written with a tinge in his cheeks, though that warm feeling was fleeting. The letter evolved into that of his personal torturous shame, as well as the concerns and fright of his own father. He felt, finally, he had gotten something off of his chest.
Until, that is, he read it over.
He was overtaken by that old, bitter stigma. His handwriting grew violent, emboldened with the sheer pressure he applied to his pencil. He wound up scribbling the ending out altogether. From his place on the floor, he shot up to his feet and, viciously crumbling the paper, pitched it in the direction of the trash can. He bothered not assuring if it reached its destination. To the last stall he went, slamming the door behind him with a thunderous bang.
He wanted nothing more than to ram the door shut onto his head. He despised this turmoil that brewed within him--this disgusting, dark beast. He wanted to take a blade and gore it out of himself. He hated it--hated it! His very nature was revolting, and forever shall be. He deserved every strike from his father and every epithet spewed at him. He was filth. Not Sal and the clique. Him.
This attraction of his was unnatural, he knew, and God will one day set him ablaze for it. But he couldn't erase it. He simply couldn't. He had tried. Oh, God, he had tried. And yet, here he was.
Why must he bear this despicable attraction for Sal--the freak with a mask for a face and a detestable, effeminate-yet-grungy appearance. If fate had dictated that he should fall for someone so gloomy, why hadn't it been someone else in the circle? Ashley or Maple or any other girl! Maybe--Maybe then, he could accept himself. Maybe then, his father could, too, and beat his son no longer.
In an upright fetal position he was perched atop the toilet, with his face buried in his hands. He sobbed his eyes out. He held no care for his eye that raged with a wild pain and begged him to stop straining it. Shallow, ragged breaths shook his ribcage, and every fiber within him ached with incurable depression. He withdrew in on himself more and more.
Then, the bathroom's entrance door opened and shut. He was now not alone.
With an iron grip, he held his mouth shut to quell the pitiful sounds. Yet still, he quivered. It became difficult to breathe but he subdued himself into silence anyways--just as he had always done.
Someone knocked on his stall. "Anyone in there?"
Travis amassed whatever strength he still might have possessed, and gave his best attempt at an aggressive remark: "No duh, fuckwad! Buzz off!"
"...Travis..? Are you crying in there?"
Only then did he realize who it was he conversed with: Sal. A new wave of misery overwhelmed him. Throughout violent shaking, his body caved in even more. "S-Sally Face? I--No! I wasn't crying! Can't a guy get some privacy!"
"Travis, you know it's alright to have emotions and let them out, too, right?" asked Sal, his voice more mellow than it deserved to be.
He had no right to insert himself into this episode of his. Travis wanted him to leave and never return. Never again did he want to glimpse upon him or listen to whatever false sympathy he spewed. "Yeah, for queers! Just leave me the fuck alone!" Take the hint, Sally Face. For the love of God.
There was a prolonged silence.
"Why do you hate me so much?"
He opened his mouth as if to respond, but whatever ill-prepared answer he had, vanished. But then: "I hate you because you and your dumb friends are a bunch of homos! It's sick--unnatural!" Oh, dear Lord, he sounded just like his father. With so much self-hatred within himself, he utilized the violent words to parrot against the other. There was nothing else he could have said. This was all he ever knew. And then, he reverted into an even darker place within his heart, and all the pain came bursting forth with it: "God will never love you! Why should I?!"
Would Sal even understand what he meant? Of course not.
From the space beneath the stall's door, he saw Sal lean against it, and realized, to his horror, that Sal wasn't exiting the conversation as he should.
"You know we aren't actually all gay, right?" Sal asked, without a trace of malice in his voice. It was an earnest question. "Ashley's only into dudes, and Maple and Chug are an established item. Larry--hell, I don't even know what Larry is, he's never really mentioned it. But we're not all gay, dude."
That Travis knew. But he couldn't take out his anger on them if he acknowledged it.
"Well," Sal continued, "except for Todd. Todd's super gay. But, y'know, that's just a part of who he is. And I think it's wonderful. It doesn't determine who he is as a person. Todd's one of the nicest people I know! How can anyone hate Todd?"
"I hate Todd!" In truth, he was envious. Envious of how Todd could announce his homosexuality to the world and not be dealt the consequence. Not get beaten to near-death by his parents for it. Not fear his Maker, nor Hell. It seemed otherworldly.
"Come on, Travis. You don't even know us."
"I know enough. Leave me alone." It was a pathetic whimper--a plead.
Another pause. "Dude, is your dad pushing these beliefs onto you?" There was something heinous in his voice. Pity. Travis needed pity from nobody. Least of all, Sal Fisher.
"So you think that just because my dad's a preacher, he suddenly owns me? Well, I'm my own fucking person!" Another bold lie.
"These thoughts don't just materialize from nowhere. I don't really believe you on that one, sorry."
"I don't need you to, you freak!" he yelled. His jaw clenched and his nails dug into his head. He wanted to punch the wall and bleed. "I said leave me alone, alright!"
"Yeah, but... I mean..." For a second, Sal sounded defeated. And for that naive second, Travis almost believed he would finally yield. But he didn't. "You just... seem so unhappy, man." Perhaps Travis was deceiving himself, but he thought he heard sadness in Sal's voice. It was a tone he knew well. "You sure your dad isn't, like, putting you into too much pressure? Must be tough to be the son of such an intense man. Especially with some of the stuff he preaches."
The tension, ever so slowly, melted from his shoulders at the softness of his voice, and suddenly, Travis didn't want to fight anymore. He said in a shuddering breath: "You have no idea what it's like."
"I... don't know what to say, honestly. Sorry, man."
Travis snorted mirthlessly. A numbness developed. "Don't be, Sally Face. I really hate your pity." He tried to inject venom into his words, but to no avail. He sounded hollow, and nothing more.
"We don't have to be enemies, you know that right?" When Travis didn't respond, Sal continued. "Under all of that pent-up anger, I think there's a good dude who's afraid to be himself, and so he takes it out on others because he doesn't know what else to do with himself. But... if you ever need someone to talk to about anything, or, fuck it--maybe you just want to get away from your dad, well, you can hang out with me, alright?"
Tears slipped from his eyes, but this time, for another reason. "Sally Face?"
"Yeah?"
"...Why? Why are you being so nice to me?" It was nonsensical. All of those months he had spent terrorizing Sal, simply because he was the cynosure of his affections. He had thought he loathed him, but here he was, trying to talk him through an episode.
"I don't think you're a bad person, Travis."
Travis wept.
Between the sobs, he tried to formulate coherent words. "You know, I... I don't really hate you. Or your friends."
"I never thought so."
And then, a downpour of emotions. "I just... I don't know. Life is really fucking depressing sometimes, and, I... I mean... It's hard. I hate it. I hate... I hate myself, Sal. I don't know what to do. You and Ashley were right. I don't have friends. And I just--Well, I guess I... I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being an asshole. You didn't deserve that. No one did." Least of all Sal.
"That means a lot to me, it really does. Thank you. And... about what I said about being there for you, if you need a friend..."
Travis suspected he would withdraw the offer.
"I meant it, Travis. Here."
He slipped his phone number beneath the stall door. Travis, tentatively, picked it up and stared at it, his glossy eyes bewildered. He held the number to his chest, as if it would dissipate at any given moment.
"Don't push your luck, Sally Face!" he said, though a hint of warmth was in his words. "Oh, and--" He took the folded envelope from his pocket, and, just as Sal did with his number, slipped it beneath the door. "--I meant to flush this, but I guess you can have it. I, uh, found it on your desk. It had your name on it. Don't ask me why I have it."
"Oh, thanks." He saw his pale, black-polished fingers pick up the envelope on the opposite side.
"Now, scram! I... I need my alone time. And don't tell anyone about this, or you're dead! I.... I mean, er, please, just... don't tell anyone about this. Not even your friends."
"I won't. Promise."
"Thank you."
Sal's footsteps grew distant, and the entrance door creaked. Open, closed. Alone again, Travis felt a sense of calmness wash over him, with Sal's number ebbing the misery away.