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Nobody could have prevented any of this; that's the first lesson that Travis learned. He was a child back then, mother kissing his cheek one day and gone the following morning. The blood inside his father's veins was already ice cold, palms holding him down as he was told to never shed tears for a woman who didn't deserve them.
Wasn't it the opposite though? She had a light to her, a spark of bubbling laughter and colorful bracelets against dark skin. He remembers wanting to paint his nails like hers, so they could be one and the same.
All Travis has ever done since her departure is making mistakes one after another. Guilty by association, walking alongside prophets and liars, tearing apart everything around him, from family to his own skin. Bloody knuckles barely healed, purple always dancing at the edge of his skin, scabs picked at each time they start to heal.
Healing, you have to yearn for it; all Travis does is fear and hate.
That's convenient, to say that tragedies are unavoidable, to pray away what's a part of his soul while being aware it won't work. At worst, he'll get shards of his soul piercing anyone standing to close. From rage to something else, a numbness causing him to stare, pain pulsing around his eye, as the senior (he doesn't know his name, doesn't care for it) unbuckles a familiar mask.
He knows you have to crave some twisted kind of envy to do that—the prosthetic mask doesn't come off easily, by simply tugging. Ah, perhaps he tried to do that, once. Unfastening both straps is a clear sign of cruelty.
Not everyone is jealous and drunk on unsent love letters—bullies though, isn't it a common condition? It could have been him, he supposes, watching the prosthesis being snatched away, hearing laughter in an almost empty hallway.
Travis shouldn't be there—he misses home and its casual apathy, the walls against which he slides without ever making a sound, unlike his school persona. He failed math, again. He will always fail it anyway, numbers mocking him as he shoves them inside his brain lacking space. The teacher told him to stay after class, making an attempt at correcting whatever is wrong.
Everything is, it's high school.
So, Travis got to stare at his textbook, drowning in the sly voice mocking him—nah, he's just a bit dramatic, isn't he? Craving reasons to loathe the world to avoid being a part of it. All he could think of was the ache against his fist, the need to rub previous damage against the wooden desk to feel something.
And now, he's standing there, the soles of his shoes uncomfortable against linoleum, watching another bully with a sickening victorious expression plastered on his face.
If he were a better person, if he could stand for himself and others without slurs and misdirected rage, he'd do something. Maybe not the greatest option available, just better than whatever the bile rising in his throat is supposed to be.
Travis hates math; not as much as he despises unsent love letters and fucked up poetry comparing blue hair to night skies and butterflies with cut-off wings. He'd rather punch walls until he cannot hold a pen or sit in front of a typewriter than write anything ever again. Crumpled notes and self-hatred bleeding like ink underneath fingernails.
Travis doesn't budge for a moment, watching a familiar back he pushed out of the way too many times. Have things been better, since the bathroom fiasco? Could have been, if Travis had opted to take the first step.
Some days, he wonders if he'll ever leave that rotten stall whose walls have been covered in sharpie and casual nonsense.
His heart seems stuck there, where no one can reach for it.
The boy holding the prosthesis up high, out of reach, suddenly lets out a pained sound, as if the vision in front of him was unbearable, stepping on the hem of his jeans and stumbling backward until he's running.
Once, Travis told his father about Sally Face. An urge to share, to wonder what he would think of such person.
'The Creator should have called him back years ago, he wasn't even worthy of His mercy'.
The words rubbed him as wrong as fists do sometimes, as belts and verses thrown out of context until they're poison rather than solace.
Travis watches the world, his world, the one he tore apart without much success (turns out that he wasn't Sally Face's first rodeo with bullies, and apparently not the last either), hands flying in front of his face as he is standing there, small frame alone in the endless hallway.
Selfishly, he would like to be the hero for once. The knight preaching the right doctrine, followed by love and a mother who could as well be dead for the fact she left without a return address to send letters to.
He's not good though.
He's not.
He steps forward anyway, backpack tossed against the floor, mismatched supplies colliding with each other in an alarming fashion. One day, his bag is going to relent underneath the weight, vomiting its contents for all to see.
Jacket sliding down his shoulders, he hesitates. That's not about heroes and love; Travis can't claim either of these things. All he's got is a mean streak, fingers tainted with ink instead of pinks and purples, a cross with faded gold tangled against his sweater.
He drops the jacket over Sally Face's head, from behind. He has words against his tongue, all of them as ugly as his heart.
"You attract cliché bullies," is what comes out (unlike him, unlike everything else he could say to salvage the situation).
"Fuck off, Travis."
He hears the trembling voice, stares as fingers get a hold of the jacket, tugging it down until the other is hidden from sight. That'd be easy, to steal that illusion of safety, to ruin everything. His hands are heavy with something hard to decipher, leading him to cross his arms against his chest.
"Watch your tongue, F—"
Freak? Another word in F not so glorious either?
Whatever he planned on saying gets shoved down his throat by a strangled sound.
"Fucker," that works too, he guesses.
What else is there to say?
Hey Fisher, at least it wasn't me being the bad guy this time around?
Fingers drum against his uncomfortable sweatshirt, fabric itchy against bare skin and bruises. That's fine, he's used to everything being an absolute nightmare anyway.
Standing behind Fisher, Travis wonders what's next. The bully running back in their direction, tossing the, definitely, expensive prosthetic face on the floor? That doesn't concern him—except it does, due to these abominable feelings fostered inside his heart.
He notices that the other is shivering eventually, struggling to untangle his own thoughts to be caring and compassionate; even with religion, he cannot get anything right.
"Man, that always happens," Fisher whispers, an odd bewilderment in his tone, something dark and uncomfortably familiar, "They never like what they see much though."
Travis shouldn't be standing there, jacket out of reach, watching the fingers holding it trembling with something which feels so deeply wrong. Bile has left his throat parched, nothing capable of making out.
He stares at his feet, that's always a safe option, sneakers getting a bit old, worn out at the edges, like his mind. Couldn't he shove that asshole out of the way, and pretend this didn't happen? Like last time, when he said 'thanks' and 'fuck you' at once yet didn't change much after that.
He misses the first tear, not the second. It crashes against the floor with a barely audible sound.
Anybody walking on them, alone in the deserted school, would get the wrong idea. It causes Travis to step back, to fear and draw conclusions out of nothing. What's to see, if not a lover quarrel, broken hearts and—not everything is about him, Travis should know.
He does.
He does, that's still painful anyway.
Like bodies caught in crossfire. Dead ends, friendship he can't offer, love which wouldn't be returned. Wouldn't it be terrifying to be told 'Me too'?
Usually, it's Fisher who has the right words, who aces tests without looking like he's even trying; it's his smiles that Travis has to paint with his sinful imagination, his kindness which is disgusting and endearing at once as it engulfs everything around him.
"Don't cry, that's gay."
Is he even trying?
It's been months since they haven't gotten any bologna—that and the unfortunate conversation he was forced to have right after. He misses the familiarity of poorly processed lunch meat—how he could at least look to that to make his week less shitty.
Sally Face makes an attempt at shoving a foot back to kick him, which fails as Travis dodges the attack. There is nail polish on his fingers, chipped black, and Travis would rip it off with his teeth if these were his own hands.
"Let's—find a teacher or something. You wanna go to the nurse?"
He hears what sounds too much like a strangled sob to his liking, as he is not prepared to deal with any form of emotion unless it's anger. That's his range, good church boy, violent bully. Nothing in between, no place for poetry or debauchery.
After an agonizing silence, Travis opts to direct them towards that second solution himself. Or else they'll spend eternity in this poor representation of Hell. One hand shoves Fisher forward, fingers pressing against a shoulder blade without care.
"I'll stay behind you, so just move already—"
"Oh, afraid of what you could see?"
The venom dripping through isn't usual—their banter turned bullying slash forbidden love slash no excuse for what he has done, it doesn't bring that sort of result. It's cynical at times, between them, Fisher mocking him with his faceless mask he always has glued to his skin, rarely that bad though.
(Now the mask is gone.)
"If you don't shut up, I'll force you to turn around," he snaps as if he couldn't do anything else.
(His mother was so fucking patient with him, no wonder she got fed up and packed her things without as much as an explanation.)
"Oh?"
Travis feels the tension, the sudden change in the air. Shouldn't they figure out who took the prosthesis, get it back before it ends up shattered in some meaningless crusade?
"Well, Travis, if you want to admire what's left of me, you just have to ask."
He dreamed of that moment—half of the time, his reverie takes grotesque turns, and what's staring back at him isn't human enough, red eyes and promises of damnation. The remaining times, the glimpses of hot flashes and perfect skin, that's not right either.
What's the degree of scarring you need for that sort of thing? He'd rather not know. His brain jumps from one insult to another, getting tangled into impossible endings.
"Freak, I don't need to see your messed up face!"
I already love you, he doesn't add. That's ironic, doesn't Sal know anyway? He found the note, his crumpled heart tossed on the bathroom's floor. Then, he still—fucking kind heart of his that Travis yearns for and completely hates at once.
He half-expects the jacket to be thrown back at him, zipper cutting his lips open or breaking his nose—people have the wrong idea of Sally Face. He's capable of defending himself, of taunting back and clenching his hands into tight fists.
He chooses not to do the latter much of the time, and that's the opposite of what Travis is capable of. Which is not much, never enough, close to nothing.
"Nobody does."
That's unfair, how self-hatred drips in his voice; Travis isn't keen on sharing the feeling, on pitying someone other than his own pathetic self.
"The heathens you call your friends, they don't care."
"Who knows?"
They're walking now, they could be standing still and it'd be the same, for how little they seem capable of achieving when together. All the what-ifs he dreamed of, then cried about, felicity replaced by anguish, praying for them to vanish, don't hold much weight any longer.
"They definitely don't," he snarls, backpack sliding down his shoulder with each step he takes, "Why are you pretending otherwise?"
Can't you tell you have everything I want?
All he knows of Sal is this infuriating warmth, palms spread against his friends' shoulders, tip toeing to reach higher, whispers against their ears—all the rights and none of the wrongs. There is only jealousy found in idolizing somebody, truth distorted until it's laying across your skin akin to a scar or a bruise.
He has punched as many walls as his father has done to him, or so he supposes. He doesn't keep track of his own misdemeanor, that wouldn't change anything about his rotten insides and misaligned teeth.
He'd rather have a perfect rival, an unattainable crush, than another human being to deal with. That's terrifying, to rely on someone who will end up leaving anyway.
"I wasn't aware you cared."
"You're always in my face!"
"Hence my name?"
"Shut up, you know exactly what I mean—"
Travis himself has no idea of what's pouring out of his mouth. All he knows is that he isn't capable of stopping any longer.
"You're so—welcoming, embracing every day in this shitty place as if it wasn't a complete nightmare on Earth," shit, he ought to punch himself in the face, hard enough to be knocked out would be nice. Then he'd wake up in his bed, and everything would be another misunderstood dream. He brushes his knuckles against chapped lips, wishing nothing more than to bite down and tear his skin apart, "You didn't rattle me out to your stupid friends after our conversation, when you should have!"
"What for?"
"I punched you on that day, how stupid are you?!"
They aren't going in the right direction—the infirmary is on the other side of the school. Travis has no energy left to care. As long as they're moving, so will time.
"You did apologize after—I do wonder why though, considering you're back to being charming."
"Cut the sarcasm, Sally Face."
"If you insist, Travis."
The lingering uneasiness is definitely his fault, not that he knows how to deal with it. Pushing his sleeve up a bit with his cheek, Travis glares at the back of his enemy. Only to—he's drained. That's an unfortunate conclusion. The day in itself was long, and to be stuck there after class ended didn't help.
"Why are you there anyway?"
"I had to make up for some exams I missed last week."
He does recall that the other boy was absent. Was it on Tuesday or Wednesday? Either way, his mind had to drift somewhere else than on blue hair—if he were more honest, would his head be this messed up?
"Oh, makes sense. I had—math being a bitch again. Remedial classes suck."
"Did it help?"
"Obviously not."
Without thinking, he adjusts his pace to stand next to the other, eyes locked in front of him. Are they going to go through the whole building until they run out of things to say? He'd rather be home, staring at decayed wallpaper and an array of scriptures engraved into the frame of his bed.
He senses the tension, the way Fisher tugs on the jacket, messing up blue hair. And all he dreams of are horrid endings, of forced kisses and bloody knuckles. What's wrong with him? With them and that school?
Ah, he's the one who feels like bursting into tears now.
"You're not offering to tutor me, I guess?"
He adds, needing to feel the silence until it stops suffocating both of them.
"I could—I don't feel like it though. Not when you're still a jerk."
"You know what, Fr—Fisher, that's fair."
High school will probably end before he gets to make amends properly.
As they're about to reach the library, a figure appears. The senior from earlier, holding what costs more than a scholarship in one hand, revulsion painted on his face.
Does Travis look like that, when his anger turns ugly? He wants to avert his eyes, although he can't. Not when the boy (they're kids, why are they so cruel? Who taught them that?) is already on the path to war.
"Why did you follow me, fuckers?!"
He wishes he wouldn't have to stare into this alternate version of himself. As if mirrors weren't difficult enough, the shadow of his mother lingering across bruises.
"Could you give it back?" Sal's voice is calm, for someone who was crying not long before. He extends a hand, the other clenching the jacket so hard Travis is worried he's going to undo the seams.
"Oh, you want your stupid mask back, Sally Face?"
Travis wonders why he has to witness this, when all he is capable of doing is making things worse in the first place. The way the other boy says the name though—blatant mockery meant to sting, he hates it.
"You're so messed up, no wonder no one will ever love you! I can't believe they let you come to our school—"
Tuning the words down isn't that hard, as if he wouldn't be capable of letting them out himself. The attack is a bit personal, and he has to remind himself that not everyone uses love as an excuse for wrongdoings.
He has Bible verses on the tip of his tongue, all the wrong ones. Don't love people who look like you, don't take your life; Travis Phelps has sat through enough sermons to last a lifetime, they used to be comforting, an anchor point.
When did they turn into a list of flaws tossed without care on his shoulders?
Sal is more loved than us , he'd like to shout, loud enough to fill the hallway, he has a father who doesn't bruise his mind and body, friends to laugh with, and that stupid cat he keeps on mentioning when talking to the idiots that Travis can't stand because he can't take their place.
Instead, he blinks, unsure or where he is. Of what he's meant to be.
Sal flinches, although he doesn't dash in the opposite direction nor he lets tears roll down his cheeks again.
There is more courage in the short boy that Travis will ever have. Everything's about envy and wrath, leaving him to wonder how many sins he can claim as his before his heart runs out of space.
"I think you're full of shit," is what Sally Face goes with, "Give it back."
"Or what?"
It goes a bit like this, one second he's standing there, small and scared, the next Travis finds himself catching the jacket thrown at his face, a glimpse of red and jagged lines in the corner of his eyes.
Holy shit.
Holy fucking shit, Fisher knows how to punch.
It's only when the asshole hits back that Travis remembers having legs and being capable of using them.
Any teacher walking on them would lose it, without a doubt.
He struggles to help, mostly because Fisher has decided to say 'fuck it' and throw his small frame at the guy, causing both of them to crash against the floor.
Eventually, Travis gets a hold of the prosthesis laying on the floor, cradling it against his chest like a holy relic.
A shame he chooses that exact moment to let his gaze drift towards Sal.
He fantasized this—the scars and how he would accept to go past them thanks to the strength of his love or some similar bullshit.
Abomination is the first word which comes to his mind—his father's harsh tone blaring inside his head.
(He's five, bawling his eyes out after an argument with another kid on the playground, mom kissing his bruises.
'I hate him, I hate him!' He shouts until his throat is raw and burning.
'Do you?' She uses the bottom of her dress to wipe a bloody knee, voice soft.
'Are you sure? What matters the most isn't your first thought, when anger swallows everything else. It's the second, when your heart is honest. So, do you hate that boy?'
He sniffles loudly, wrapping his arms around her shoulders.
'I'm sad, I thought we were friends but he broke my knight—I'm so sad, mom.'
'Are you sure he did it on purpose?'
'I don't know...'
'Okay sweetheart, you're allowed to be sad, let's get some ice cream and then we'll talk to Brad and his mom. How does that sound?'
'G-good—dad won't be mad at me?'
'Why would he?'
She was wrong about that last part.)
The face isn't pretty, it's horrendous and incredibly sad somehow. It has nothing to do with whatever his heart wanted. It's a testimony of something which doesn't concern Travis. That's not quite the priority here though.
He doesn't mind, that's what comes next, his second thought, weird ass redemption arc he probably doesn't deserve. He doesn't mind because it's not his job to.
They're not friends, even less lovers.
He flies a kick against the bully's ribs—still unable to associate a name with that stupid face—immediately tugging Sally Face upright after that.
There is still electricity in the air, in the way Sal's breathing is labored and heavy, must be due to what's left of his nose—Travis doesn't say that. He doesn't say anything when the bully scrambles to his feet and runs away either.
His fist is still clenched around the sleeve of Fisher's oversized shirt seconds later. He should avert his gaze.
Wordlessly, he hands the prosthesis over, shoving it in Fisher's hands before fetching the hair ties on the floor. Damn, that was brutal.
"Are you ok—"
The words die down as Fisher turns away from him, lifting both hands to his face.
There is a long pause, before he hears a 'plop'.
Travis draws the line at someone adjusting their eye. Wait, fake eye? Oh, shit, that's rough. He swallows harshly, not saying that it's enough to make stomach twist uncomfortably. Prosthesis straps hanging around his wrist, Fisher doesn't make a move to put it back on once he's done doing whatever was necessary.
"Glass eyes are rarely round, they adapt to your eye socket," he states, as if that wasn't enough to make Travis gag.
(Not that he does. He's very close to losing his shit though.)
"Why the fuck are you telling me that?"
"I have no idea, I'm okay anyway, you can leave and—"
"Hey."
"I said I'm fine, Travis."
Jacket over his shoulder, he drags his feet on the floor as he moves to stand in front of the other—crush, rival, and everything he thought Sal wasn't, sad and brutal.
"Hey," Travis says, fingers clenched around two purple hair ties until they're imprinted into his sweaty palm, "That was badass. Kinda. I mean—"
His free hand finds Fisher's jaw, sliding under his chin until he's able to lift it.
Couldn't they have met at a party, in a different world, music blasting loud enough to drown his heart and insecurities? What are parties even like, outside of cheap alcohol and temptations at every corner? He wouldn't know.
He feels like the negative of a person, the part which is tossed away once photographs are printed. What shouldn't be seen or talked about, taking dust in brown envelopes.
"I'm not gonna bail on you because you look like you went through a lawnmower," could he have said anything worse than that? Who knows, he's full of surprises, "What I mean is that—you're you and—"
He watches the corner of Sal's mouth twitch, right before he lets out a half-hearted chuckle.
Fuck, he wants to kiss that boy.
Not right now, brain.
"Really, a lawnmower? That's all you could find?"
"Don't make me punch you, not that I would, dickhead—did he hurt you?"
That's odd, to feel marred skin underneath his fingers, to think that Sal is giving him that opportunity. He lowers his hand eventually.
"I'll live, I always do."
A part of him doesn't want to hand the hai ties back. Blue hair riveting against shoulders is—a sight to behold. One he wants to imprint in a corner of his mind for later, for cold nights and tears.
"You've never defended yourself against me like that, not physically."
"Oh, you're already hurt all the time, what's the point of adding to it?"
There is an urge to shove him against a locker, to threaten and break—Travis swallows it as deep as it can.
"If you do as much as pitying me, Fisher, I'll—" His rage deflates mid-sentence. Isn't he supposed to be better? He shrugs instead, hands rubbing against the pockets of his jeans in a slow motion, "Wanna sit somewhere, you look like shit."
"That's my natural look~"
He rolls his eyes.
They sit in front of the school, it's only them and a lone car in the parking lot. It has always been there, for as long as Travis remembers. He's doing his best to ignore the way the steps underneath him are humid from the rain which poured on the town all night long.
The hair ties are still in his pockets, he wonders if Sal intends on asking for them or not. It suits him too, to have his hair down.
Palm against his cheek, the other has not said much. Honestly, Travis is surprised the prosthesis is still dangling off his wrist now that they are outside. At the same time, who the fuck could walk on them?
"I'm sorry," he blurts out, "For what I said."
"When?"
"Every fucking day since I've met you?"
"That's a lot of words, Travis."
He throws his hands into the air, only to be reminded of his father getting worked up during a sermon, starting to condemn every damn thing he disapproves of. What to do with his hands, he never knows.
That's why they get raw, and that he has to let them roam against roads and fences until he can't feel enough.
Damn, he's fucked up.
Nothing new.
"Last time, when I said it—in the stall—it felt like I couldn't stop my words from pouring. I was sincere, it's just that—isn't it better to say that stuff face to face? And for once that you're showing yours."
"The prosthesis is my face, Trav. It's what I'm comfortable with."
"I understand why," why can't he refrain from saying that stuff? Dammit.
"You're such a charming boy, you know?"
"I don't mind your stupid face, that's what I mean! Stop twisting my words to fit your victim narrative!"
He hears a chuckle by his side.
Christ, he's awful at any form of communication.
"Apology accepted?" He eventually mumbles without daring to turn his head.
"Not quite, you're getting there though. I get your situation is rough, just don't lash out at me and I'll probably be fine hanging with you."
"You sound like my mom," that's easier to say than 'who the fuck said I want to hang with you', "Well, for what I remember about her, I guess."
The following pause is oddly long, to the point he's afraid of having gone too far.
"Your mom's gone too?"
"Yeah, she left when I was a kid, packed without so much as a goodbye. Since then, it's me and my dad," they both know what it means, nursed wounds and abandoned hearts.
"Mine's dead."
"Shit, I made some jokes about your mom, didn't I?"
"I teased you about your dad, so—"
Still. That's on a completely different level. Travis would like to ask if whatever happened is linked so what's left of his face, glass eye and deep scars.
He has crossed enough invisible lines for today, hasn't he?
"Want to listen to something? Larry and I made mixtapes last week."
"What does the crackhead—I mean, doesn't he exclusively enjoy blasphemous music?"
Sal' smiles are uneven, which makes sense considering—well his face. Travis finds it endearing, eyes caught in the corners of the boy's mouth.
"What's the harm in that?"
"Fine."
He lets Sally Face put headphones over his ears, watching him fumble with the cassette player for a while.
"Dude, if any of these songs is about fornication or—"
"Trav, shut up and feel the music."
"Since when do you call me Trav, demon spawn?!"
"Since five minutes ago, get on with the mood, Traaaav."
Sanity Falls blasting against his ears suddenly does an excellent job at covering the obscenities he lets out.
It's a bit loud—a familiar impression of too much at once. He takes one of the hair ties from his pocket, twisting it between his fingers while he closes his eyes.
The rage in the voice isn't soothing at first, in fact he spends half of the first track tense. However, as the lyrics get through his skull, he—relates a bit. While he's working on wondering to which extent, something warm presses against his shoulder.
Sally Face could have been elbowed in the jaw for that, luckily for him though, Travis freezes rather than going into a defensive stance.
Shit. No homo and all of that, right?
Cracking one eye open, cheeks flushed with teenage embarrassment, Travis glances down at that fool who decided that he makes a great pillow. The volume is high enough for the other to hear the music through the headphones in that position, which explains why he's so close.
That or Travis has been in a dream all this time. It wouldn't be so great.
"Dude. You're still keen on befriending me after all of that?" He might be too loud.
"Sure," Sal screams back so he's heard, "Second chances and all, don't fuck this up. Oh, this one's my favorite."
More screaming. The quality kind, but still. Travis wouldn't be caught admitting he's having a good time, even as he's bouncing a leg to the beat while focusing on everything except for the body against his.
If only this moment could last forever.