Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

waking up was a bitch.

his eyelids cracked open like they were glued shut with old sweat and regret. head felt foggy. like he’d been asleep for ten years but still didn’t get any actual rest.

his room was cold as hell. not that he could say that.

sorry jesus.

he shut his eyes again. no. no, fuck this. opened them. again. groaned through his teeth.

shit .

he rolled over and immediately regretted it.

“fuck—” he whispered, sharp and low, like the word’d slice his own throat. he hissed through clenched teeth and flopped back on his side, careful this time.

his back lit up like someone took a goddamn rake to it.

jesus christ, forgive me for takin your name in vain , he thought, wincing hard. and for cussin. and for thinkin about cussin. and for whatever else i don’t remember doin last week that made him grab the fuckin belt.

he stared up at the ceiling. blank. off-white. same spot he stared at every morning.

the room around him looked perfect. not in a rich boy, magazine kind of way. just… precise. not a sock out of place. closet door shut tight. not a wrinkle in the bedspread besides the ones his sorry body made. desk empty except for the bible. drawers shut. wastebasket empty. every item lined up like he lived in a fuckin showroom.

two reasons.

one—he’d get his ass kicked if it wasn’t.

not just “go clean your room, son” type shit. no. his father didn’t do requests. he did wrath. you leave your damn jeans on the floor once, and next thing you know you’re prayin with a bruised rib and a busted lip.

so yeah. he kept the place tidy. not cause he liked being tidy. cause he liked not limping through school like a fag.

second reason—

okay. fuck it.

second reason was…

maybe he did like cleaning.

maybe it was the one part of his life that didn’t feel like dogshit.

maybe wiping down the baseboards was the only time he wasn’t thinking about whether god hated him or if he was gonna fuck up again and get tossed through a wall.

not that he’d ever say that.

cleaning was just easier. simple. quiet. a broom didn’t yell at you for looking wrong. windex didn’t ask why your math grade was a 58. bleach didn’t expect you to stand up straighter and speak with “conviction like a phelps man.”

whatever the fuck that meant.

bless this house, he thought bitterly, rolling his eyes at the crooked cross above the doorframe.

the wooden jesus on his wall stared down at him like he was already going to hell.

“you and me both,” travis muttered under his breath.

he sat up. carefully. slow as shit. like he was ninety or somethin.

shirtless. looked down. yep. bruises. yellow-green across his ribs, blooming down to his hips like some kinda ugly-ass flower garden.

he didn’t remember what he did.

might’ve been that he left his socks in the dryer. might’ve been he sighed too loud when his father said somethin about sodom and gomorrah. might’ve just been thursday.

whatever.

it wasn’t like anyone gave a shit.

he stood. joints crackin. every step like a punishment.

the floor was cold.

no rug. rugs held dirt.

he walked over to the window, pulled up the blinds, squinting at the weak-ass gray light outside. nockfell. always gray. always fuckin damp. like god forgot to finish building it and just left it in the beta version.

he hated this town.

he hated his school.

he hated those weird freak friends—sally fuckin face and his little faggot gang, todd the nerdy homo, that bitch ashley with her dumb smug look, and larry—fuckin larry—god he hated larry the most.

and still.

still.

some dumb part of him wished he could walk up to them and not say somethin nasty.

he’d never do it. obviously. never.

but like.

what the fuck do they have that he doesn’t?

how come they all get to laugh and act like they’re safe? like they got someone? like they’re not just waitin for god to throw a fuckin lightning bolt down and smite the shit out of them?

sal was a fag and a freak with a face like a rotted tv dinner, and he still looked more peaceful than travis ever felt.

lord, please don’t strike me down for thinkin that, travis thought. i ain’t mean it. just sayin.

ugh. fuck sal.

he didn’t even do anything.

but god, just the thought of him made travis’s jaw clench so hard it felt like his teeth might crack.

fuckin sally fuckin face.

walking around school like he’s better than everybody else. like he ain’t got a fuckin zombie mask glued to his face. like he don’t got blue pigtails like some weird-ass clown girl.

and the worst part?

sal smiled at people.

smiled .

like he wasn’t a goddamn freak. like he wasn’t getting laughed at behind his back.

or to his face.

whatever.

he’s a fag, travis reminded himself, pushing the thought down like he’d done every damn day since seventh grade. fags ain’t real people.

he knew it wasn’t a good thing to think. knew god didn’t like hate in the heart or whatever.

but still .

sal had that look in his eyes. the same one todd had. that soft, weird, girly look. like they were gonna cry or hug someone or hold hands or some other fag shit.

travis hated it.

he hated them.

he hated himself even more.

jesus forgive me , he thought silently as he stretched his arms over his head. his back cracked like dry wood. still sore. still stiff.

he should’ve laid back down.

but if he did that he’d fall asleep again and end up late. and if he was late—

well.

jesus don’t let him be awake yet , travis thought, stepping quiet as a ghost toward the hallway.

he pushed his bedroom door open slow, no creaks, trained like a damn ninja after sixteen years of survival drills.

hall was empty. cold. quiet.

thank god.

he shuffled barefoot across the hardwood, each step cold enough to sting. the bathroom door was just ten steps away. he counted them out in his head like it mattered.

closed the door behind him. locked it.

small bathroom. nothing special. no windows. pale yellow walls that always looked dirty no matter how much he scrubbed them.

mirror above the sink. old. speckled. warped.

he didn’t look right away.

he didn’t want to.

but he always did.

he looked.

and—god.

yeah.

looked like shit.

shirtless. tall. all bones. collarbones sharp like broken glass under skin. bruises across his ribs and chest. some fresh. some older. shades of purple, blue, green. one that looked like it used to be shaped like a belt.

scars too. faded ones. thin ones. raised ones.

and his face—

worse.

dark circles under his eyes like smudged charcoal. lips cracked and dry. the black eye from two weeks ago still there, faint yellow hanging on under his left socket.

he leaned closer. squinted.

ugly.

his hair looked like piss.

like actual piss.

yellow, dry, brittle as straw, the roots dark and rough and creeping back in again.

he touched the roots. flinched.

they’d grown out like half an inch.

shit.

his dad was gonna say something soon.

“don’t disrespect your bloodline,” he’d growl. “you’re a phelps, not some mongrel.”

and travis’d sit there, quiet, not moving, knowing damn well what came next.

he didn’t even know how to bleach it right. he just poured that store crap on his head till it burned.

once it made his scalp peel.

he didn’t tell nobody.

hair care was for fags anyway.

he yanked the brush off the sink, pulled it through his hair like it owed him money. snapped some strands clean off.

good.

whatever.

he looked like his mom.

people said that sometimes.

light brown skin. warm. kind of golden in the summer.

high cheekbones. sharp chin. dark almond eyes.

he didn’t remember her much. just flashes. warm hands. a lullaby. she used to hum.

his dad never talked about her.

called her a “lesson.”

told travis she was weak. that weakness got her killed.

whatever.

he looked too much like her.

his dad hated that.

travis turned the faucet on. splashed cold water on his face.

shivered. sniffed. stared back at the mirror.

he looked tired. like someone who didn’t sleep on purpose.

he wiped his face with a towel. hung it back up.

stood there a second longer.

then a minute.

father says tank tops are for sinners , he thought idly, eyes flicking to his bruises again.

he said travis couldn’t wear ‘em. said it was immodest. tempting to women.

bullshit.

real reason was—

he didn’t want the church folk to see what he did to his son.

travis sniffed again.

his chest felt hollow.

like if someone knocked on it it’d echo.

he grabbed his toothbrush, brushed hard. until his gums bled.

spit. rinsed.

stared.

god, please help me be good today , he thought. don’t let me think about sal again. don’t let me say anything wrong. i’m sorry. for whatever i did.

he set the brush down.

turned off the light.

opened the door.

the hallway was still quiet.

thank you jesus.

ten minutes later, he was still standing in the bathroom.

like a dumbass.

just standing there, hunched a little, arms crossed like that’d somehow make him less cold, less shirtless, less fucked.

he should’ve been in his room already. should’ve been dressed. should’ve had shoes on. should’ve been out the goddamn door.

but instead he was just—

still there.

paralyzed.

walking hurt. not even in a dramatic way. like, literally, hurt . his back still ached from god-knows-what happened last week. his knees cracked every time he moved too quick. his ribs felt like someone’d stuffed a few sticks of firewood in there crooked.

standing still wasn’t better, but at least it didn’t make him wanna puke.

he stared at the faucet again. drip. drip.

he didn’t fix it. he didn’t even think to try.

too tired.

too fuckin—

“travis!”

he flinched. like actually flinched.

fuck .

his heart shot straight into his throat.

he turned toward the bathroom door like it had personally betrayed him.

not dressed. not ready. fuck fuck fuck.

he didn’t even remember what day it was. school? chores? both? was he supposed to be downstairs? in the car already? at the chapel?

another yell: “travis!”

same tone. sharp. commanding.

SHIT.

he shoved the bathroom door open too fast and smacked his shoulder on the frame. didn’t even have time to groan. bolted down the hall like a one-man stampede, bare feet slapping the wood floor.

his room was still perfect. neat. peaceful. calm.

fuck that.

he ripped open the closet door like it was hiding treasure.

shirts. a clean-ass row. color-coded by force of habit.

he didn’t have time for that shit.

he yanked one off the hanger without looking, then looked anyway.

purple.

not, like, faggy purple. not pastel pink-purple like that weird shit todd probably wore.

just purple.

ugly. deep. almost gray. a bit faded from too many washes.

his favorite.

he didn’t like that he had a favorite.

but he did.

it was big and soft and ugly and didn’t itch. and it didn’t feel like his skin was screaming when he put it on.

he shoved it over his head fast, hissing as the fabric brushed his bruises.

“shit—”

he didn’t have time to finish the thought.

bottoms. he needed bottoms.

ripped open the drawer.

jorts.

fuck it.

they were ugly. like really hideous.

he didn’t even know why he had them. they were knee-length. frayed. made him look like a dad going to a backyard barbecue.

but whatever. they were there. they were clean.

he shimmied them on fast as hell. buttoned. zipped.

“travis!” again, sharper now.

panic went up to level ten.

socks. socks socks socks—

gray. crew-length. boring. perfect. shoved them on, one-handed, hopping like a lunatic.

where the fuck were his shoes—

he scanned the floor. neat. too neat. he couldn’t even see them.

then—corner. tucked under the bed like a pair of smug bastards.

green sneakers.

he didn’t even like green.

they looked like damn bowling shoes.

but they were his. and they fit. and he didn’t have time to give a shit.

he dropped to his knees too fast and felt something in his back pull.

“fuck—”

bit his tongue. shoved the shoes on.

laced already. thank god.

no time to untie. he shoved his feet in hard, crushing the heels, jamming them on like his life depended on it.

another yell, this time:

“travis! last warning!”

jesus christ please please please i swear i’m tryin—

he launched to his feet, snatched his backpack off the chair, bolted.

out of his room. down the hall. nearly slipped on the floor but caught himself.

down the stairs.

three at a time.

heart hammering.

sweat already breaking on the back of his neck.

socks slightly crooked. sweater itchy. back screaming.

but alive.

barely.

he hit the last step like he was dodging the devil.

thank you jesus, he thought. thank you thank you thank you.

he didn’t even know if he was gonna make it through the rest of the day.

but for now—

he wasn’t dead.

his father wasn’t in the mood to yell.

yet .

he was standing by the front door, stiff as a scarecrow, sliding his coat on over that same crusty-ass pastor getup he always wore. black slacks. crisp white button-up. plain tie. brown wool overcoat like something out of a depression-era funeral.

travis didn’t say anything. didn’t breathe too loud.

his father grunted.

not like a hello. just… a grunt.

like, good, you’re not late enough for me to backhand you. yet.

travis nodded. just once.

then he froze.

looked down at himself.

…fuck .

jorts.

he was wearing jorts.

in winter.

outside that front door was gonna be snow and frost and freezing wind and more snow and more frost and—

god fucking dammit.

stupid.

he was actually stupid.

how the fuck had he forgotten it was winter? how the fuck had he walked past the frosted bathroom window and the thermostat and the radiator with a sweater and fuckin jorts like it was the middle of july?

because he was rushing.

because he was panicking.

because every second he spent not moving was one second closer to another bruise.

can’t go back now, he thought, stomach twisting. can’t grab a jacket. not worth it.

he could already hear the voice in his head:

“don’t waste the lord’s time, travis.”

“vanity is the devil’s whisper.”

“maybe if you feared god more than the cold, you wouldn’t be so goddamn pathetic.”

ugh.

fine.

let it snow. let it fucking snow.

his father cleared his throat, loud and deliberate.

“the lord has blessed us with another good day,” he said in that voice of his—calm, slow, almost nice if you didn’t know it came from the mouth of satan.

travis nodded again. said nothing.

if he spoke it’d be the wrong tone.

if he smiled it’d be fake.

if he breathed too loud he’d get a glare.

1. nod. shut up. move.

the door creaked open.

they stepped outside.

and—

FUCK.

snow.

white. everywhere.

cold enough to slap him right in the face like a reminder that god had a real mean sense of humor.

wind sliced across his bare legs like tiny knives. snowflakes hit his cheeks like sand.

his calves were already numb.

his toes too, even through the sneakers.

the driveway was a sheet of frozen slush. the car was already running, breath fogging out the exhaust like it was mocking him.

travis did that little awkward shuffle you do when your legs are freezing but you don’t wanna look like a bitch.

jesus christ, he thought, then immediately, sorry. sorry jesus. i meant… not that. just… please. heat. please.

truth was?

he kinda liked the snow.

like—objectively.

from a distance.

from a warm house window, hot cocoa in hand, socks on, watching flakes fall quiet on the yard.

it looked nice.

like a blanket on the world. like someone tried to make all this ugly shit look softer.

but living in it?

with no jacket?

ughhhhh.

he climbed in the car.

door creaked. cold vinyl seat slapped his thighs like punishment.

he bit his tongue. sat still. buckled up.

his father got in on the other side. clicked his seatbelt. started to drive.

and that was it.

no radio.

no talking.

just… silence.

the kind of silence that sat between you like a loaded gun on the dash.

his father didn’t believe in music. said most of it was satanic.

even christian stuff.

said it “worshipped the wrong god.”

travis didn’t know what that even meant.

his father just didn’t like joy. that was probably it.

anything that made you feel good was automatically evil.

unless it was praying or fasting or building the lord’s shed behind the chapel in january.

whatever.

travis stared out the window.

the snow kept falling.

quiet. slow.

it made the trees look like ghosts.

he watched frost spider across the corners of the glass.

his breath fogged the window.

he didn’t draw anything in it.

he just stared.

thought nothing.

and also—

everything.

for the whole drive till the car stopped in front of nockfell high.

jesus christ , travis hated this place.

…sorry jesus.

he hated it a little less today though.

because today, like every morning, it meant getting dropped off and left the fuck alone.

which meant: no yelling, no scripture lectures, no leather belt across the spine. no getting dragged across the kitchen floor for sneezing wrong.

school was hell. sure.

but compared to his actual house?

looked like the damn pearly gates.

he didn’t even care that his legs were already turning red from the cold, his stupid-ass jorts practically screaming “please give this boy hypothermia.”

didn’t care that the wind almost knocked his scrawny ass sideways.

he’d take this over the living room bible beatdown any day.

he swallowed, tried to un-tense his shoulders, and reached for the door handle.

his dad was still gripping the wheel, staring dead ahead like the road had personally sinned against him.

“have a good day,” he muttered without looking. “walk in god’s light.”

“yes sir,” travis said, soft, fake as shit, but smooth. well-practiced.

the second the words left his mouth, he opened the door and got out.

and then.

slam .

oh fuck.

too hard.

the door slammed too hard.

shit.

fuck .

he winced and paused with his hand still on the handle, heart punching his ribs like you stupid dumb bastard.

he could already hear it:

“you think doors grow on trees?”

“disrespectful little shit.”

“the lord ain’t fond of wasted money.”

“maybe if you had some damn discipline—”

whatever.

not now.

right now he was where no one could touch him.

no one could grab his arm too hard.

no one could knock him down or spit verses in his face or tell him he was going to hell just for existing weird.

he was at school.

and here ?

here he was someone else.

the second his sneakers hit the sidewalk, it was like armor clicked on.

his shoulders rolled back. spine straightened. chin up.

they couldn’t see what was underneath.

hell no.

they wouldn’t dare.

he shoved his hands in his sweater pocket and started walking toward the front doors like he owned the damn place.

kids were everywhere. groups by the steps, talking, smoking, shoving each other around, laughing about dumb shit.

but the second travis came striding up?

parted.

like the red sea.

no one said anything.

no one got in his way.

eyes flicked toward him. looked away just as fast.

he liked that.

he fed on that.

here, no one was like his father.

no one had the right.

travis was loud.

travis was mean.

travis pushed people first .

he could call someone a fag and they’d flinch. he could bump a kid’s shoulder in the hall and they’d apologize. he could snort in someone’s face and they’d just look down at their shoes like yes sir mister phelps sir please don’t ruin my day.

nothing could touch him here.

nothing.

well—

almost nothing.

he walked inside, door clattering shut behind him.

school air was always weird—kinda warm but still had that cold-floor smell, like mop water and hallway dirt and whatever sad cafeteria mystery meat they were serving.

his breath wasn’t fogging anymore, but his legs still felt frozen.

he ignored it. kept walking.

he liked the sound of his sneakers hitting tile.

liked the way other kids moved outta his way like magnets.

god himself could’ve clapped from heaven and been like, “look at my soldier go.”

but then—

then.

he looked down the hallway.

froze.

ugh.

fuck.

him.

him .

and his little faggy parade of loser freaks.

the ginger nerd and that black junior who were always holding hands like the end times weren’t coming.

gross.

like actually gross.

they were always smiling too. like their lives weren’t doomed. like public sinning in the hallway was cute .

todd looked like he’d die if his calculator ever broke.

and that other one—neil?

neil wore a backpack with pins on it. like he was in a fucking club or something.

queer as hell.

disgusting.

travis muttered something under his breath.

jesus forgive me , he added, out of habit.

ashley was there too.

that bitch.

and he meant that in the biblical sense.

she was pretty, sure. even he couldn’t lie about that.

but she was a mouthy little thing. always talking back. always staring him down like she wasn’t scared of shit.

always standing in front of—

nope.

he wasn’t gonna think about that part.

skip it. skip it.

then there was larry.

the worst .

grimy-ass metalhead with hair like a mop and the attitude of a drunk raccoon.

stoner. sinner.

foul-mouthed. violent.

once called travis a “bootleg jim jones” and kicked his ass behind the gym.

travis had never forgotten.

larry hated him. and the feeling was mutual.

but—

but none of them—none of them—compared to the one thing that still made travis’s stomach twist.

not fear.

not anger.

something worse.

more confusing.

more dangerous.

the one thing in this whole fucked up town that really got under his skin.

that wormed its way into his head like a splinter he couldn’t pull out.

the only thing, besides his father, that made him feel wrong.

sal fucking fisher.

or— sally face , as he apparently liked to call himself.

and that was the part that really made travis want to shove his head through a locker door.

it wasn’t even like a nickname people bullied him with.

no.

the little freak chose it.

introduced himself like that.

sal fisher, standing in the hallway like his whole existence didn’t make travis’s stomach do backflips.

travis called him “sally face” out loud. obviously .

because, like, duh.

but in his head?

in that quiet little corner of his brain that he never talked about?

it was always sal.

just sal.

fuck .

he was there with the usual freakshow lineup—his weird little club of faggy sinners and lost souls.

probably talking about gay shit. or ghosts. or science. or whatever creepy satanic punk rock demon garbage they always whispered about like it was deep.

he couldn’t hear them, though.

no one could.

not with that thing on his face.

and there he was—standing too close to ashley.

too fucking close.

travis narrowed his eyes.

like, shoulder-brushing close.

and ashley?

she didn’t even flinch.

she stood there like it was normal.

like that was just how they stood.

like it was fine .

and sal leaned a little when he talked to her. casual . like they’d done this a million times.

travis’s jaw clenched.

he told himself it was because ashley was annoying. not because he gave a fuck who she stood next to.

not like they were dating or anything.

not that travis cared.

obviously .

he definitely didn’t give a single shit if ashley was dating sal.

he didn’t even think about that. not for real.

but if she was—that’d just be extra embarrassing for her.

dating sal.

sal fucking fisher.

who looked like he was seven inches shorter than travis.

like, actually.

like someone put a kid in a high school hallway and hoped no one would notice.

and then there was his hair.

bright ass blue.

like that fake-ass candy flavoring. blue raspberry or some shit.

so bright it looked like it glowed.

tied up in two pigtails, as usual.

like a girl.

like a whole fucking girl.

and not even in a subtle way.

no.

full pigtails.

little elastic bands. neat-ass sections. like he woke up and chose that shit.

like he looked in the mirror and went “yeah this is it.”

who the hell does that.

and worse—even with the pigtails, sal still somehow gave off this vibe that made it clear he was a dude .

like, a real one.

not girly.

not soft .

not trying to be something else.

just didn’t care.

not about how people looked at him.

not about what was “normal.”

not even about god.

and that made travis grind his molars.

like— who the fuck lives like that?

today, sal was wearing a black sweater.

plain.

no skulls. no band names.

surprising, considering half his closet probably looked like a possessed record store.

the sweater was long, kind of baggy. sleeves pushed up at the wrists.

he was wearing red jeans.

tight ones. ripped to hell.

freaky punk shit.

and travis hated—hated—how smug he probably felt about the fact that he wasn’t freezing like some idiot in jorts.

travis didn’t even have to look at his own legs to feel the burn of humiliation.

sal probably picked those pants on purpose.

just to be warm and weird.

his sneakers were the same ones he always wore—blue high tops.

some stupid-ass brand.

maybe that was his favorite color.

matched the hair.

god , that was so faggy.

his ears were pierced.

both of them.

twice.

just two little black studs in each lobe.

travis stared at them way too long before snapping his eyes away and mumbling something angry under his breath.

gay.

so fuckin gay.

and that was it.

that was the whole picture.

the gang of weirdos around him. the candy-colored pigtails. the stupid-ass pants. the earrings. the nerve.

and then—

then.

the mask.

ugh .

travis couldn’t even look at it too long without getting pissed off.

creepiest shit he’d ever seen in his life.

like, actually .

and this was coming from a guy who grew up watching those old hell-preacher tapes where dudes got fake-possessed and rolled around on the church floor like lizards.

this was worse.

it was mostly white.

but not, like, clean white.

not bleached white.

not pure holy-lamb-of-god white.

no.

it was more like a chalky, off-white, dusty-wall-in-a-shitty-basement white.

and then—right near the cheekbone—there was a section of soft pink.

not bright pink. not hot pink.

no.

like… baby pink. easter egg pink. fag pink.

why the fuck was it pink?

travis didn’t know.

and the worst part?

even that part looked creepy .

the mask wasn’t even one solid piece.

it had a crack running through it. diagonal, like it’d been split in half and glued back together by some possessed porcelain doll in a horror movie.

so the pink and the white sat next to each other like a split personality.

like two faces trying to be one.

travis hated it.

he hated it so bad it made his stomach feel tight.

and it didn’t even have an expression.

just a neutral face.

like dead neutral. like no emotion. no smile. no frown.

the kind of face a mannequin would have. if the mannequin was made in hell.

travis didn’t know how anyone could stand to talk to him.

you couldn’t see if sal was smiling or mad or confused or even blinking.

it was just there.

just this empty-ass, blank fake face staring at you.

no mouth hole.

no real nose.

nothing.

and when he talked?

muffled.

like hearing someone from the other side of a wall.

and the worst part?

okay. fine.

this was a little fucked.

but—his voice?

wasn’t bad .

like, not good, because nothing about him was good.

but it was…

calm.

low. soft. kinda weirdly steady.

travis had noticed that a long time ago.

not in a fag way.

just… you pick up on shit when someone’s being weird around you 24/7.

not that he was paying attention.

but whatever.

it was dumb.

freak shit.

he looked back at sal across the hallway, still pretending not to be looking.

the eye holes were just narrow enough to cast shadows on the skin around them.

like a thick frame.

like someone’d taken a pencil and shaded a circle around each socket.

so the skin looked darker.

greyish.

ghoulish.

dead .

he looked like a fuckin ghost puppet.

and still.

somehow—

his eyes were normal.

well.

kind of.

one of them definitely wasn’t real.

travis was, like, ninety percent sure.

maybe glass. or plastic. or whatever fake eyes were made of.

looked a little off. like a toy eye.

but the real one?

that one was—

ugh.

whatever.

it was fine .

objectively.

blue.

light blue. pale. bright.

not like the ugly candy-dye blue of his hair.

a prettier blue.

like those weird expensive marbles old ladies collect.

too nice for a face like his.

too nice for a person like him.

travis scowled and looked away.

mask was stupid.

mask was creepy.

mask was for hiding.

and it wasn’t even, like, emo fashion bullshit, which made it even more annoying.

travis had thought that at first.

thought it was just a cry for attention.

but no.

word had gotten around.

sal didn’t talk about it.

not directly.

but other kids said stuff.

rumors. whispers.

apparently he’d been in some kind of accident.

way back.

like, years ago.

no one knew exactly what kind.

travis had heard “explosion” once.

heard “murder.”

heard “house fire.”

who the fuck knew.

point was—

the story went that underneath the mask, sal fisher looked like roadkill.

scarred. messed up. deformed.

so bad he didn’t even take it off in the nurse’s office.

didn’t take it off for anything.

not even gym.

not even showers.

not even the time someone tried to rip it off and he punched them straight in the mouth.

he wore it all the time.

and travis hated that.

he hated it for multiple reasons.

like, yeah, it was ugly.

but also—it made people talk. made people look.

made people curious.

and travis hated shit he couldn’t figure out.

he hated masks.

he hated not knowing what someone was thinking.

he hated that you had to guess with sal.

watch his eye movements.

read the tilt of his head.

his posture. his little shoulder twitches.

because you couldn’t see it.

not his face.

not his mouth.

not his smile.

if he even had one.

ugh.

and—

and yeah.

travis had wondered.

not, like, seriously, but still.

he’d thought about it.

what was under there.

what it actually looked like.

was it really that bad?

was he just being dramatic?

was he… hiding something worse?

travis didn’t care.

but it bothered him.

because no matter what, that mask always looked back.

so.

that was sal.

objectively.

but his personality?

ten times worse.

like—if the mask wasn’t enough to piss you off, the shit inside it?

somehow more unbearable.

like, yeah, fine . the pigtails were bad.

but the attitude?

way worse.

travis didn’t even know how to describe it.

demonic confidence. cult leader type shit.

this was a guy who didn’t give a single fuck about anything.

not about god. not about hell. not about looking like a fag in public.

the boy wore fishnets once.

no joke.

like, actual honest-to-god black fishnets.

under baggy ripped jeans like it was normal. like it was cool .

travis had seen it.

unfortunately.

and he’d spent the rest of the goddamn day not thinking about it.

like, actively not thinking about it.

couldn’t concentrate. couldn’t take notes. couldn’t even enjoy yelling at todd during lunch.

every time he blinked it was like—boom. there it was again. that flash of pale thigh through ripped denim.

which was disgusting. obviously .

he was probably just… disgusted. yeah.

just full of righteous homophobic disgust.

nothing else.

god knew his heart.

…unfortunately.

anyway.

point was—sal was so fucking sure of himself.

and not in that loud, annoying, jock kind of way.

no.

quiet confidence.

dangerous kind.

the kind that didn’t need approval. didn’t need permission.

travis’d called him a fag to his face like five times freshman year and he didn’t even blink.

just gave him this look.

not a glare.

not hurt.

just—neutral.

like he didn’t care.

and that was worse .

sal never gave him the reaction he wanted.

travis would say some wild shit—mean shit—shit that’d make most kids cry or fight back—

and sal?

would just give him that weird, cool, deadpan stare and say something like:

“you want a piece of gum?”

which, yeah, that actually happened.

bio class. first week of school.

they got partnered up.

travis was already pissed.

why the hell would god pair him with that?

and then sal offered him gum.

like they were friends.

and travis panicked.

like, full-body panic.

heart racing. felt hot. a little dizzy. new feeling. 

so he called him a fag.

real loud.

and sal just blinked, shrugged, and said, “okay. your breath’ll just keep smellin like hell.”

like HELL.

the nerve.

that was the beginning of it.

the downfall. the humiliation. the torment .

because sal wasn’t normal.

he didn’t respond right.

he didn’t cry.

he didn’t cuss him out.

he didn’t get all flustered or defensive.

he just… kept being nice.

polite.

calm.

always calm.

always fucking calm.

he’d been called a freak, a monster, a fag, a demon—every name in the book—and he still greeted people like a damn grocery store greeter.

travis hated it.

like, genuinely.

because how the hell are you supposed to bully someone who won’t crack?

how are you supposed to feel powerful when the person you’re tormenting just… doesn’t give a shit?

and worse?

he was smart.

like, annoyingly smart.

the kind of smart that made teachers cream themselves every time he opened his mouth.

travis had watched him hand in a quiz and get a hundred when travis got a thirty-two.

a thirty-two.

and sal didn’t even brag.

he’d just glance at his paper, give a half-shrug, and move on like being god’s favorite was casual.

teachers loved him.

kids liked him.

his freaky little friend group adored him.

and travis hated it.

because he couldn’t figure it out.

couldn’t figure him out.

sal was quiet.

but always knew what to say.

funny. sarcastic in a way that made you feel dumb but not mean enough to call it out.

resourceful.

always had some smartass comeback that sounded mature as hell, like he was forty or some shit.

like when travis called todd a queer science robot last semester and sal just went,

“well at least he’s got more circuitry than whatever’s rattling around in your head.”

and everyone laughed.

even ashley.

travis wanted to punch a wall.

he did punch a wall.

still had a scar on his knuckle.

sal was annoying as shit.

because he was chill.

and composed.

and brave.

and helpful.

and kind.

and selfless.

and never judgmental.

and emotionally mature.

and empathetic.

like a loser.

a nice-ass, faggy, deeply upsetting loser.

and it pissed travis off.

because he could call sal every name in the book and sal would still treat him like a human.

still look at him like… like maybe there was something good left in there.

and that was the most insulting part.

because travis knew he was garbage.

he worked at being garbage.

he liked being feared.

he liked being hated.

and sal?

sal refused to hate him.

even when he should’ve.

even when he deserved it.

and travis couldn’t stand that.

it made him want to scream.

it made him want to hit something.

it made him want to yank that stupid fuckin mask off and finally see if he could find something ugly enough to match the hatred boiling in his chest.

and that was sal.

emo. grunge. angsty.

a little punk rock faggot with a creepy-ass mask and no fear of god.

travis could sum him up in about five words:

“freak bitch doesn’t fear hell.”

sal fisher woke up every day and chose sin.

he wore pigtails like he was born to piss people off.

he dressed like a walking bad decision.

he hung out with losers, fags, nerds, stoners, and ashley.

he wore ripped clothes and chains and eyeliner and whatever else those demon-worshipping bands thought looked “edgy.”

he smoked behind the school once. travis saw it.

and not just a cigarette . like. a whole -ass cig, with no guilt.

lit up like it was casual .

looked travis dead in the eyes through the smoke like he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

like he knew it was a sin and didn’t give a shit.

disrespectful as hell.

and then he went back to being the nicest goddamn person alive.

he acted like a saint. like he was too good for the world. like he was just chillin in god’s waiting room while the rest of them rotted.

but travis saw through it.

travis knew.

no one was that calm.

not unless they were hiding something.

the mask?

fake.

the kindness?

fake.

that fake ass politeness when he got called a fag in front of half the school and didn’t even flinch?

fake.

it had to be.

because if it wasn’t—

if sal fisher really was that composed, that smart, that self-assured—

then what the fuck did that make travis ?

and the worst part?

the absolute worst part ?

was that sal wasn’t even interesting.

he wasn’t loud. he wasn’t charismatic.

he just existed.

and still, somehow, he was the only thing in this entire dogshit town that could make travis lose sleep.

like, yeah, his dad was awful.

he got beat at least once a week.

couldn’t breathe at home without worrying about saying the wrong thing.

walked on eggshells from the second he woke up.

his whole life was a walking bruise.

but sal?

sal fisher was worse .

sometimes.

because at least with his dad, he knew what he was getting.

but sal—

sal was unpredictable.

he was infuriating.

he was like a paper cut on a nerve.

just there.

and always somehow winning.

sal was terrible.

evil .

he had to be.

all that kindness?

that was a trick.

a satanic spell.

a test from god.

sal was the reason everything was so fucked up.

sal was the reason travis was born a phelps.

sal was the reason he got hit.

sal was the reason god looked at travis and decided no .

why?

because travis could never fuckin look away.

Chapter Text

it started the very first fuckin time they met.

not like. officially met.

not like “hey, i’m travis” and “hey, i’m sal.”

fuck no.

travis didn’t do introductions.

he didn’t do small talk.

he didn’t do people.

and sal fisher was not people.

he was something else.

something worse.

but yeah.

it all started back then.

freshman year.

first day of school.

seventh period.

biology.

but the storm started way before that.

it’d already been a piece of shit day.

hell, it’d been a piece of shit night before.

he hadn’t even gotten to sleep until, like, 3 a.m.

and only then because the bruises stopped burning long enough for him to pass out on his mattress.

technically, he got woken up around 2:12 a.m.

technically, he got woken up by his father’s boot slamming into the side of his ribs.

so.

yeah.

not a great start.

his father was in one of those moods.

one of those “holy ghost came to me in a dream and told me my son’s a whore” moods.

apparently some dumbass in the church said they saw him talking to a girl near the gas station.

key word— talking .

he wasn’t doing anything.

not that it’d matter.

travis never liked girls.

not in real life, not in dreams, not in any way that would justify being beat half to death over it.

but he let the accusations roll.

let the fists fly.

he was good at not screaming anymore.

good at staying still.

like a dead possum.

so yeah.

he showed up to school that morning with a fresh batch of swelling along his ribs and the kind of headache that made your vision go fuzzy.

he hadn’t eaten.

his clothes were ugly as shit because somehow all his decent ones were still wet in the washer and he didn’t dare dry them without permission.

he had on these shitty cargo pants from eighth grade that barely fit and a short-sleeve polo that smelled like bleach.

he looked like a sixth grader going to a funeral.

a teacher yelled at him before lunch for “slouching” and “mumbling,”

almost sent him to the office.

he nearly got into a fight with a junior in gym after bumping into him in the locker room.

which.

junior.

versus freshman.

real biblical.

everywhere he went, people either glared at him like he was about to pull a knife, or avoided eye contact like he already had.

his back hurt.

his shoulder hurt.

his fuckin teeth hurt.

he was barely even walking anymore.

by the time seventh period rolled around, he was running on three hours of sleep and pure hate.

he walked into biology like a ghost in a sweater.

slumped down in the back, arms crossed on the desk, head buried.

he didn’t give a single shit what they were learning.

mitosis could go fuck itself.

then the teacher started pairing people up.

travis didn’t move.

fuck a partner.

he was half-asleep already and ready to stay that way.

let someone else deal with the group shit.

he figured nobody’d sit with him anyway.

they knew better.

but then—

he felt someone sit down.

not across.

right next to him.

quiet. soft.

then a voice.

low.

boyish.

kinda muffled.

“hey. are you okay?”

and—

that was the first time anyone’d asked him that in…

well, fuck, maybe ever.

even teachers never asked.

even with the bruises clearly visible on his arms.

they probably just figured he was in a fight.

he didn’t lift his head.

didn’t say shit.

just ignored it.

the voice came again.

“you can sleep for a bit if you want. i’ll wake you up when we start the partner part.”

huh.

what the fuck.

who says something like that to a stranger.

Whatever travis didn't really feel like talking to whoever anyway.

travis grunted in acknowledgement.

didn’t even lift his head.

but somehow—

somehow—he felt… warm.

not in a gay way.

just.

like.

a blanket got tossed over his head in the middle of a storm.

he fell asleep.

somehow.

right there in seventh period bio.

and when he woke up,

he felt a tap.

light.

gentle.

two fingers on his shoulder.

he blinked.

lifted his head.

wiped his mouth.

eyes blurry.

he looked over.

and saw him.

the devil.

sitting there with his pigtails and his creepy-ass mask and his little binder of organized notes like he didn’t just ruin travis’s whole life by existing.

that’s how it started.

that’s how he started.

sal fisher.

travis looked at him.

like.

really looked.

and for a second—just one horrible, cursed, world-ending second—he didn’t know what the fuck was happening.

he blinked.

and blinked again.

what the fuck.

travis was trying to process what he was looking at.

and god , the kid was creepy as shit.

his hair was bright fuckin blue.

not just dyed.

not just “blue-ish.”

no.

bright.

like a popsicle. like blue raspberry kool-aid.

like a slushie threw up on his head.

and pigtails.

he had it tied into fucking pigtails.

like a girl.

like a weird-ass emo clown girl who didn’t know she was in public school.

and then—

the piercings.

two little black studs in each ear.

black.

not silver.

not gold.

black.

emo as shit.

faggy as shit.

he had a black long-sleeve shirt on with some evil-ass band logo stretched across the front in scribbly white letters that looked like tree branches.

probably something satanic.

probably something called like children of suffering or bleeding funeral noise.

travis couldn’t read it.

he didn’t try.

and then—the mask.

that fucking mask.

chalk white. pink-stained. creepy.

just looking at it gave travis the sensation that his spine was about to eject itself through the top of his head.

what the fuck kind of kid wore a mask to school?

some kind of fashion statement?

some freaky-ass emo gender-confused hot topic demon shit?

he was staring at travis through the eye holes.

and travis—

travis felt brain-fucked.

like, actually.

like he’d just looked directly into the eyes of something he shouldn’t have.

this kid was everything wrong with the world.

everything sinful and cursed and rotten packed into one fuckin body.

a blue-haired, pierced-up, devil-masked boy.

just looking at him gave travis a brain aneurysm. 

and travis should be sick.

he should be gagging.

he should be choking on his own disgust.

he should.

but instead—

he felt hot .

what the fuck.

his ears were burning.

his cheeks.

his everything.

and nockfell high was cold as shit.

always was.

they never ran the heat.

but here he was.

fucking like—melting or some dumb shit.

whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck.

the kid tilted his head.

eyes focused.

all gentle and concerned and…

oh shit.

travis’s felt like vomiting.

he looked away. fast.

fever, he thought. has to be a fever. gotta be a fever. maybe he’s got the flu. or hypothermia. or maybe satan himself’s trying to possess him through this weird blue-haired freak from hell.

he tried to breathe normal.

sat up.

“uh. ok,” he said.

his voice cracked a little.

he cleared his throat.

the kid just nodded and opened his notebook.

they started working.

travis kept his head down.

focused on the worksheet.

focused on not dying.

the kid talked.

a soft voice. calm.

not high.

not annoying.

just—

soothing.

gross.

fuck.

“you doing okay?”

again with the concern.

travis grunted.

his arm was hurting.

the sleeve was pulled up too high.

the bruises were obvious.

he yanked the fabric down a little.

the kid didn’t say anything after that.

just kept working.

he made a couple jokes.

nothing loud.

just little things under his breath.

travis didn’t laugh.

he definitely didn’t laugh.

he didn’t even smile.

but he heard it.

and he remembered it.

and it was a little funny.

they finished the worksheet.

travis didn’t talk much.

just scribbled shit.

nodded when necessary.

kept it short.

he was too busy focusing on not looking at the guy.

then—

the kid reached into his pencil bag.

pulled out a packet of gum.

travis caved.

watched out of the corner of his eye.

couldn’t look away.

even though he really really really wanted to.

the kid popped a piece in his mouth.

weird as fuck.

somehow managed to do it under the mask.

like. there was a technique.

travis felt deeply disturbed.

but also, like—impressed.

and maybe a little like… too interested.

which was.

insane.

and terrible.

then the kid pulled out another piece.

held it out.

offered it.

to travis.

like it was nothing.

like this was just something people did.

like people gave travis things.

travis didn't know how to react.

no one had offered him gum since, like, fifth grade.

and even then it was a pity gum.

this was…

something else.

fuck.

he felt dizzy. 

he looked at the gum.

looked at the kid.

his dumb, masked, pierced, faggy face.

his soft voice.

his kind eyes.

his stupid jokes.

his stupid fucking pigtails.

and suddenly—

all of it was endearing.

not gross, not sinful it was—

travis felt something in his chest he didn’t have a word for.

his throat got tight.

his hands sweaty.

his mouth dry.

he felt like vomiting but in a good way—which, what the fuck??

pretty, his brain whispered. he looks… kinda pretty.

and as soon as travis processed that—

he panicked.

he shoved his chair back.

stood up too fast.

eyes wide.

heart racing.

“fag,” he spat.

grabbed his books.

stormed out the door like it was on fire.

ran.

didn’t stop.

didn’t look back.

and that’s how travis phelps had his first crush.

ever.

like. 

in his whole life. 

travis had never had a crush before. not once. not even by accident.

and in his mind—cause he had thought about it, obviously—his first one was supposed to be normal.

like.

some girl from church.

quiet. pretty. long hair. wore skirts below the knee and said “bless you” when people sneezed.

she’d probably play piano at youth service.

maybe bake cookies or whatever the fuck godly girls did.

that’s what it was supposed to be.

duh.

but no.

nope.

instead it was him.

satanic, weird, faggy-ass mask-wearing sal fucking fisher.

emo as hell.

sinner coded.

dressed like he’d crawled out of hell and brought the soundtrack with him.

and a boy.

god.

after that day in bio, travis straight-up skipped the next three classes.

like actually just didn’t show up.

wandered around campus or locked himself in a bathroom stall or some shit.

anywhere sal wasn’t.

he was that fucked up over it.

that dizzy, that off, that freaked the fuck out.

not in a cute way. not in a little-awkward-first-crush kinda way.

no.

this was apocalyptic.

this was head-spinning, throat-burning, soul-damning shit.

like every time he thought about sal—

or that fucking moment.

that goddamn voice.

that dumbass polite tone and the gum—

his chest would tighten up like he swallowed a balloon full of battery acid.

it wasn’t butterflies. it was locusts.

and then the school called home.

said he’d been ditching bio.

said he needed to be “more responsible” or some shit.

and yeah.

that was a bad night.

his back hurt for a week after that one.

still had a mark on his ribs from the belt.

but worse than that

was what came next.

cause when he finally had to go back—

he couldn’t even look at sal.

couldn’t sit next to him.

couldn’t even sit near him.

anytime sal talked—

even just to answer a question or ask for a pencil or say literally anything

travis felt like his body was about to short-circuit.

it was disgusting.

hot and cold and wrong all at the same time.

like being drunk.

but also like being struck by lightning.

while drowning.

in sin.

and sal wasn’t even doing anything.

that was the worst part.

he didn’t flirt. didn’t tease. didn’t even try to be charming.

he just existed.

just stood there like a normal fuckin person.

probably didn’t even remember that dumbass gum moment.

but to travis—

sal was like this all-consuming black hole of annoying confusing something.

he made travis feel like he’d never had a thought in his life.

like he was five seconds from dropping to his knees and repenting for shit he hadn’t even done yet.

basically.

a terrible fuckin crush.

the worst kind.

gross and pathetic and secret.

and it was all sal’s fault.

fuck sal.

seriously.

he sucked.

this was his fault.

fuck that little pastel-haired demon and his creepy-ass mask and his soft-ass voice and his faggy little earrings.

fuck the fact he made travis wanna puke.

and not even in the normal way.

not in the ew this guy’s a fag way.

in the my chest hurts and i feel like throwing up but also kind of floating way.

which—what the actual fuck.

what does that even mean.

floaty vomit feelings.

it was unnatural.

unholy.

satanic.

travis didn’t even feel like this during church camp, and that place was full of emotional manipulation and short shorts.

and the worst part?

he’d felt like this since freshman year.

since day one.

since the gum.

since those stupid fucking pigtails.

since the shoulder tap and the little jokes and the eye contact and the mask that shouldn’t be able to make expressions but somehow did.

fuck the whole thing.

fuck the fact sal fisher was the only person in the history of travis’s cursed existence to ever make him feel anything besides rage and fear and pure righteous god-hating.

fuck the fact that those feelings weren’t even bad.

fuck the fact that those feelings made him warm.

that they made his brain go static and his face flush and his mouth forget how to talk right.

sal fisher was a boy.

travis was a boy.

and that made it a sin.

a big fat ten-commandments-reaking rot-in-hell kind of sin.

it was a fuckin crime to look at another boy and think about—

about—

melting. but in like a good way.

and travis thought about that.

a lot.

not even on purpose.

he didn’t wanna.

he begged god not to.

he prayed nightly.

he repented.

he tried not to look.

but every time he saw sal walk past, every time he heard that soft-ass voice across a room, something inside him twitched.

like satan himself reached in there and wiggled a finger around and said “hey dumbass. you’re cursed now.”

and travis paid for it.

every single day.

he paid for it in beatings.

he paid for it in guilt.

he paid for it in sermons and fake smiles and cold dinners and bruises he couldn’t remember getting.

it was sal’s fault.

sal was why god hated him.

sal was why travis was born to a man who thought “love” meant leaving marks.

sal was why every day felt like a punishment.

because how the hell could travis walk around feeling that and not get smited?

he blinked.

shit.

he’d been staring.

again.

sal was across the hallway, standing with his little group of freaks.

larry. ashley. todd. neil.

a whole bunch of faggy-ass heathens who were definitely going to hell.

they were probably talking about ghosts or gay shit. maybe both.

travis looked away just as the bell rang.

saved by the bell.

he slouched off to first period.

which—whatever.

school was boring.

just a bunch of hours where travis went through the motions.

sit. write. stare. pretend not to hate everyone.

pretend harder not to hate himself.

the only thing that mattered, the only real moment in his entire cursed school day, was fourth period. which arrived annoyingly fast.

math.

fuck math.

fuck math for so many reasons.

one, travis sucked at it.

two, math was the most boring bullshit ever invented.

three—and most important—

he was in it.

sal.

front row. always.

like the little perfect-ass honor student bitch he was.

and today was a test.

travis stared down at the paper on his desk.

three pages.

eight questions.

big scary numbers and squiggles.

the kind of shit only demons understood.

he hadn’t even finished question three.

and it’d already been thirty minutes.

his hand was cramping.

his head hurt.

he needed a mental break.

he glanced up.

looked across the room.

looked at the same fuckin spot as he always did like it was habitual or some shit.

and there he was.

sal.

asleep.

mask still on.

eyes closed.

head down on the desk, arms folded.

passed out cold like a fucking cat in the sun.

during a fuckin math test.

what the fuck??

just sittin there, deadass asleep in the middle of a math test that travis was 98% sure was sent straight from hell to personally humiliate him.

either he finished it already or he just didn’t give a shit.

and both options made travis feel physically ill.

he stared.

too long.

again.

his pencil slipped out of his hand and clattered to the floor.

he didn’t pick it up.

he just sat there, fuming.

burning.

confused.

and hot.

because of course he couldn’t look away.

and maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea, ‘cause right then the teacher barked—

“mr. fisher.”

snapped through the quiet like a belt crack.

sal jerked upright, slow, like he’d just come out of a coma.

his mask tilted up first.

“no sleeping in class,” mrs. packerton said without even lookin up from her desk.

sal rubbed at one of his eyes—right through the mask like he was used to it—voice low, mumbly, casual.

“sorry, ma’am. i finished already.”

finished.

the test.

finished it.

and not just finished—he was napping.

meanwhile travis was over here having a breakdown over fractions or derivatives or whatever the fuck it was asking for.

he clenched his jaw so hard it hurt.

fuckin smartass.

fuckin genius little blue-haired fag demon.

travis couldn’t even look away.

and then—

“mr. phelps.”

teacher again.

voice sharp.

“eyes on your own paper.”

travis flinched.

looked down fast.

shit.

his ears were hot.

he wasn’t even copying.

he was just—

well.

staring.

which might’ve been worse.

he could feel sal glance at him, just for a second.

he didn’t look up.

didn’t dare.

he scribbled something fake on his test just to look busy.

he swallowed down the heat in his throat.

pretended the letters on his page meant something.

but they didn’t.

not a single number made it past the fog in his brain.

then the bell rang.

finally.

sharp and loud.

travis jumped up so fast his chair scraped the floor loud enough to make people look.

he didn’t care.

he was out.

he shoved his unfinished test toward the front. didn’t even look at the teacher.

didn’t wanna see the disappointment or the judgment or whatever other fake-ass expression she wore when people failed.

he didn’t wanna see sal either.

especially not after getting caught gawking like some kind of schoolgirl.

he stormed into the hallway.

lunch next.

thank god.

he was starving.

couldn’t eat this morning ‘cause his dad was yellin and the clock was tickin and he didn’t wanna risk makin the noise of a cereal box and end up with another bruise on his spine.

so yeah.

he was hungry.

real hungry.

for food.

definitely just for food.

definitely not for soft voices and rainy eyes and boys who wore masks and made him feel things he was pretty sure were punishable by death.

he was just tired.

just angry.

just hungry.

that was all.

Chapter Text

lunch was fine.

sat by himself.

not in a loser way.

not in a no-friends, please-like-me, tray-next-to-the-trash-can way.

more like in a fuck-off-or-get-your-teeth-knocked-out kind of way.

everybody knew it.

the other kids didn’t even try.

even the juniors walked a little wider around his table.

because travis phelps?

he didn’t get disturbed.

he was a one-man minefield.

a powder keg in a beat-up pair of green sneakers.

and that was exactly how he liked it.

he picked at his sandwich.

bologna. white bread. dry as hell.

the mustard was bitter. the cheese tasted like the tray it sat on.

he ate it anyway.

he was hungry.

he always was.

the kind of hungry that never really left.

not for food.

not for anything.

the bell didn’t even ring yet but he got up.

threw the tray in the bin.

walked slow through the hallway like he had purpose. like he didn’t spend most of the school day floating like a ghost in jorts.

and then—

there they were.

of course they were.

freak parade in full formation.

sal and his merry little band of godless rejects.

ashley campbell.

larry johnson.

todd morrison.

chug cohen.

what a lineup.

a crew of full-time sinners and part-time weirdos.

larry looked like he’d never bathed in his life.

todd had calculator face.

chug was breathing loud like always.

and ashley—god.

ashley.

that bitch was everywhere.

crossed arms. black eyeliner. thinking she was hot shit just ‘cause she had a sharp jaw and didn’t flinch when travis barked.

but sal—

sal was the worst.

sal was the center of it.

he was everything.

everything wrong.

everything that made travis feel sick.

everything that made travis want to claw his own skin off and wash it in holy water.

fuck.

no.

no .

he couldn’t think like this.

he couldn’t look like this.

he squared his shoulders.

tightened his jaw.

walked forward like he had a mission from god.

which, in a way, maybe he did.

sal was talking to ashley.

head tilted.

eyes soft.

body relaxed.

close.

too close.

they were probably dating.

not that travis cared.

not that he was jealous .

not like he gave a single shit about two emo freaks getting together and kissing behind a dumpster or whatever.

ugh.

fuck this.

fuck this whole situation.

“hey freak,” he spat, voice sharp and practiced like a whip.

sal turned.

still so casual.

still so fucking calm.

travis didn’t show it, but he was melting inside.

actual melting.

bones to goo.

chest hollow.

gut twisting.

hot and weird and dizzy.

like every time sal looked at him, some part of him unraveled.

but it wasn’t obvious.

never was.

he made sure of it.

he was stone.

he was cool.

“nobody likes a goody-two-shoes saaaaaaly face,” travis sneered, dragging it out in a voice he thought sounded tough, but maybe sounded a little desperate.

he just wanted a reaction.

for once.

any reaction.

a punch.

a shove.

something .

anything to reset whatever the fuck this was.

sal just blinked.

tilted his head.

then:

“nobody likes a cliche bully traaaavis.”

voice soft. teasing.

that same mocking sing-song tone.

and travis—

fuuuck.

he went like full body shut down.

that voice.

his name in that voice.

drawn out. smug.

like sal knew exactly what he was doing.

fuck.

fuck fuck fuck fuck .

travis swallowed the heat building behind his eyes.

behind his teeth.

ashley scoffed.

“don’t you have something better to do?” she snapped, arms crossed, eyes rolling.

god.

shut the fuck up.

she always had to jump in like she was sal’s big bad protector.

like she mattered.

travis snarled.

“shut up bitch, i wasn’t talking to you.”

the words came out fast.

mean.

automatic.

too automatic.

they sounded like his father’s voice.

that same tone.

that same venom.

like something that had been said a hundred times before to someone who couldn’t respond.

travis looked away.

sal spoke again.

his voice was calm. too calm.

the worst kind.

“you know, if you took that stick outta your ass, you might actually enjoy yourself for once.”

a pause.

“maybe make a friend or two.”

it hurt a little.

because it was true.

and because travis didn’t have any friends.

and he hated that sal noticed.

so he shot back without thinking.

“fuck off faggot, i have more friends than you’ll ever have.”

a total lie.

and it burned his throat.

he could feel the sin crawl down into his stomach like poison.

but he didn’t care.

was it worse than the beatings?

worse than the lying priest he called a father?

probably not.

sal’s eyes crinkled.

like he was smiling.

like he won.

he opened his mouth, and then—

“you kiss your daddy with that tongue? i’m sure he—”

travis didn’t hear the rest.

he didn’t think.

didn’t hesitate.

his fist moved like it had a mind of its own.

he wound up and slammed it into the side of sal’s mask, hard as he could.

there was a sound—plastic hitting bone.

a dull thunk.

everything stopped.

his breathing.

the hallway.

the voices.

the world.

the second it happened—

like the exact moment his fist made contact with that weird plasticky half-pink half-white surface—

travis knew.

fuck.

fuck fuck fuck.

his whole body filled up with something that wasn’t pride or relief or anything normal you’re supposed to feel after you swing on a guy.

it was this thick, choking shit.

like bile.

but worse .

like guilt’s older, uglier cousin.

sal dropped.

not dramatically, not like in a movie.

just crumpled a little, caught off guard.

he hit the tile floor with a soft thud.

soft.

that made it worse.

and then they were there.

immediately.

like fucking vultures around a dying animal.

ashley dropped to her knees next to him like she was the lead in some fuckin soap opera.

“sal? sal? are you okay?”

bitch, shut up.

larry shoved past travis, shoulder checking him hard.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?”

his voice was too loud, sharp like a knife in the eardrum.

todd was there too. didn’t even say anything at first, just crouched next to sal like some worried little goblin.

probably checking for signs of a concussion.

even chug looked like he was gonna throw hands, and that motherfucker brought granola bars to school like it was 1953.

“you hit him!”

no shit .

travis stood there frozen.

hands still at his sides.

he didn’t even remember pulling his fist back.

he didn’t even mean to.

well—

he meant to.

but not like that.

not in front of everyone.

not like a psycho.

not like his dad.

sal was still on the ground.

but here’s the thing.

he wasn’t crying.

he wasn’t yelling.

he wasn’t even pushing anyone off him.

he just looked up.

right at travis.

through the crowd, through the noise, through all that mask and all that chaos—

their eyes met.

and sal.

sal didn’t look scared.

he didn’t look angry.

he didn’t even look hurt.

he looked—

fuuuuck.

he looked like he got it.

like he understood.

like he saw something in travis and didn’t even hate him for it.

that was worse than if he’d screamed.

worse than if he’d cried.

worse than if he’d kicked him in the nuts and spat in his face.

because what the fuck kind of person gets it after you punch them in the face?

what kind of person looks at you with those soft-ass eyes like they feel bad for you?

travis turned.

he couldn’t—

he couldn’t fucking deal with this.

he didn’t say anything.

didn’t wait to see what they’d do.

he just walked.

fast.

down the hall.

away from the crowd.

away from sal.

away from those blue-ass eyes that saw way too fucking much.

his fists were still clenched.

his heart was going 90 miles an hour.

but his stomach—

his stomach felt like someone dropped a cinder block in it.

he felt sick .

not even metaphor sick.

like literal gonna hurl in a trash can sick.

his mouth was dry.

his back was sweaty.

his legs felt like string cheese.

he could still hear sal’s voice in his head.

that little mocking “traaaavis” like it was funny.

like they were teasing each other in some dumbass sitcom.

he was gonna puke.

he was gonna puke right into the devil’s ears.

god was watching.

he knew god was watching.

this was divine punishment.

this was what happened when you spent two years being a piece of shit to the one person who—

who—

nope.

he wasn’t gonna finish that thought.

nope.

shut up, brain.

he stalked through the hallway like he had somewhere to be.

like he wasn’t trying to outwalk his own shame.

his next class was english.

which was fucking perfect.

because if there was anything better than feeling like a monster after punching the only good person in town,

it was going into a tiny-ass classroom full of bright-ass lights and writing about symbolism.

fuck.

english class was hell.

not in a dramatic “ugh this is boring” way.

like actual hell.

like god-sent-me-here-himself-to-make-me-suffer kind of hell.

the classroom was bright. way too fuckin bright.

everything smelled like old books and girl perfume.

travis sat in the back. slouched in his chair like he wanted to disappear into the floor tiles.

he didn’t say a word when he walked in.

not like he ever did.

not after what just happened.

fuck.

his hands still felt weird. not shaky, just… off .

he could still feel it, that second of contact.

his fist, that mask. the dumbass noise it made.

not even a crack. just this soft lil “thunk” like he hit a lunch tray or some shit.

and then sal just looked at him.

god.

travis shifted in his seat.

his stomach turned again.

he wasn’t guilty. no. fuck no.

he wasn’t.

sal fisher deserved that shit.

sal was a sinner.

a full-blown faggy little blasphemy magnet.

he probably did weird rituals and sacrificed frogs behind the gym.

probably carved pentagrams into his notebooks and cursed everyone who failed a math test.

travis wasn’t guilty.

he wasn’t.

he was just…

hot .

too hot in here.

probably the heating.

or satan.

whatever.

“alright class,” mrs. danvers said from the front, all chipper and annoying like usual,

“today you’re going to be writing letters. yes, letters! you’ll write a draft of a letter to somebody and turn it in at the end of the week.”

ugh.

“try to focus on tone, structure, voice, honesty—”

honesty.

travis almost laughed.

fuckin hilarious .

god loved irony.

“letters can be to someone you admire, someone you hate, a stranger, a fictional character, a past self, whatever. just try to express something real.”

travis rolled his eyes so hard he thought he might see his own skull.

express something real?

what, like vomit all over the paper?

he slumped over the desk.

tapped his pencil.

it was chewed up near the top. he didn’t remember chewing on it. probably just stress. or anxiety. or guilt.

nope. not guilt.

definitely not that.

he didn’t wanna write the letter.

he didn’t even wanna think about writing the fucking letter.

but he couldn’t sit there doing nothing.

dumb assignment.

he should be learning about like… comma splices or whatever.

not doing therapy on college-ruled paper.

but then—

he picked up the pencil again.

his hand just started moving.

he didn’t mean to.

he didn’t even think about it.

it just started happening.

new page.

no name at the top.

just words.

his handwriting was ugly as shit.

but the words kept coming anyway.

he was gonna write something. anything.

he started like this:

i know we don’t really know each other

—which was already a lie.

he knew sal.

he knew way too much about sal.

the way he stood. the way he talked. the way his dumb voice echoed in travis’s head even when he was trying not to think about it.

but whatever.

plenty of guys wrote fake letters in this class.

he was just making up a person.

this wasn’t to sal. 

this wasn’t to anybody.

it wasn’t personal.

it was just a grade.

right?

he kept going:

and you probably have your opinions of me.

travis stared at that for a second.

yeah.

sal definitely had opinions.

probably thought he was an asshole.

probably knew he was one.

travis just punched the kid’s prosthetic. 

he pressed the pen harder than necessary and kept writing:

i thought maybe if i told you how i feel, things could be different.

and that’s when it started going south.

“how i feel.”

that wasn’t supposed to come out like that.

he should’ve written something vague.

like “i’m sorry.” or “you piss me off.”

something manly. something normal.

but his hand was moving too fast.

suddenly he felt the need to be honest. 

just get it out.

the truth is, i can’t stop thinking about you.

shit.

that was too real.

he almost scratched it out, right then, but he didn’t.

his hand just… kept going.

i’m crazy about you.

what the fuck.

i think you’re amazing!

shut the fuck up.

this was like throwing up but through his pen.

but i know these feelings are wrong. it’s not the way a boy should feel.

he stared at that one for a long time.

his throat was dry.

he could feel sweat gathering at the base of his neck.

this part—this part wasn’t even a joke anymore.

he wasn’t even writing this to pass the class.

he was writing this like—

like he needed it out of his system before it killed him.

he leaned in closer to the desk.

eyes darting.

nobody was looking.

he wrote again.

slow.

shaky.

my father would kill me.

but i can’t live in his shadow forever.

i just 

he stopped.

his chest hurt.

his stomach flipped.

this wasn’t what this was supposed to be.

he wasn’t doing this.

he wasn’t—

i think about holding your hand sometimes. i think about if you’d let me.

i think about what your voice sounds like when you’re not mad.

i think about what your face looks like under the mask.

and i think if you knew what was in my head, you’d never

talk to me again.

you’d think i was disgusting .

and that’s when the panic hit.

his pen started scratching out the words before he even realized he was doing it.

heavy, messy, angry scribbles.

travis stared at the paper.

he was breathing weird.

not like, out loud or anything.

but it was fast. shallow.

he folded the paper.

buried it in his binder.

deep.

underneath everything else.

because he wasn’t gonna turn it in.

no one was gonna see that.

not sal.

not the teacher.

not even god, if he could help it.

he ran a hand through his ugly yellow hair and stared at the clock.

only twelve minutes had passed.

jesus christ.

he prayed for a fire drill.

or an earthquake.

or maybe a stroke.

anything to get him out of this room.

but he stayed.

and so did the letter.

in the folder.

pressed between lies.

rotting.

just like him.

Chapter Text

it was fucking freezing.

like teeth-hurting, dick-shrinking, soul-sucking cold.

the kind of cold that made you think god wasn’t watching anymore.

that he left.

packed up.

went on vacation.

and travis was out in it.

in the fucking snow.

3:48 in the morning.

digging holes.

behind the goddamn church.

of course.

because where else would you be at 3:48 AM on a tuesday morning in the middle of january in fucking nockfell?

he didn’t ask questions.

he never did.

you don’t ask questions when your old man kicks open your bedroom door at 2:20 AM sharp, belt still around his waist, says,

“boots on. coat too. we got work.”

that meant church work.

which meant: shovel.

cold.

ground.

gravel.

pain.

god.

he didn’t even try to argue.

just muttered “yeah” and “okay” and dragged his sorry ass out of bed like some kind of obedient little bitch.

god, he was tired.

he hadn’t slept right in days.

ever since—

nope.

not gonna think about that.

fuck the letter.

fuck that entire dumbass english class.

he hadn’t even looked at the thing since shoving it into his binder.

but that didn’t mean it left his brain.

it was in there now.

rotting.

festering.

like some dead raccoon stuck behind your wall that you can’t reach or smell or scrape out, you just know it’s there.

he could feel it every time he blinked.

sal’s name wasn’t even on it.

but it didn’t have to be.

he knew.

he knew what it meant.

and what it said about him.

and what it made him.

faggot.

sinner.

weak.

whatever.

he dug harder.

the snow came down like it was trying to bury him.

fat, wet flakes that soaked through his hoodie and his coat and turned his socks to icy fucking sponges.

his dad hadn’t said a word since they got out there.

just pointed to a spot behind the church fence.

gravel and snow and dead grass.

“there,” he said.

like that meant anything.

like travis was supposed to know what they were doing.

he didn’t ask.

he didn’t wanna know.

he just took the shovel from the truck bed and started digging.

the ground was half-frozen.

which meant hell.

every movement was slow and stiff and awkward.

his hands went numb after like ten minutes, even with gloves.

frostbite probably.

whatever.

he deserved it.

they dug four holes.

deep ones.

wide, too.

and no, travis didn’t ask what for.

he could guess.

the phelps church had rules.

and secrets.

and sometimes, those two things overlapped in real fucked-up ways.

not his business.

his dad would’ve told him if it was.

and travis didn’t want to know.

he just wanted it done.

so he dug.

and thought.

about everything.

and nothing.

and sal.

fucking sal.

goddammit.

why’d he have to be so—

he didn’t even know.

he wasn’t even that nice.

not really.

he was weird.

creepy mask.

talked like he read books.

acted like he was above everyone.

but then he’d turn around and say shit like “thanks for helping me with my locker” even when travis hadn’t helped at all— just accidentally un-jammed it because he punched it.

like a dumbass.

like he meant it.

and now travis had punched him in the face.

and written a letter.

and maybe fallen in love with him or whatever the fuck.

no.

shut up.

he stabbed the shovel into the dirt too hard.

jarred his arms.

made his wrists ache.

good.

he deserved that too.

his dad lit a cigarette from the corner of his mouth without using his hands.

one of those dumb party tricks he did that made him look cool if you were a twelve-year-old at youth group.

travis didn’t look at him.

they’d been digging for hours now.

maybe four?

he checked his watch.

4:09 AM.

jesus.

he hadn’t said a word since they started.

not one.

neither had his dad.

the only sound was the scrape of metal on gravel and the occasional grunt.

like pigs in a trench.

he wiped his nose on his sleeve.

sniffed hard.

his face was numb.

his fingers were gone.

not literally, but they might as well’ve been.

he kept picturing sal’s face.

or what little of it he could see.

those eyes.

that look.

that fucking look.

the one he gave him after he got hit.

like—

like he understood.

like he didn’t even hate travis for it.

which was fucked.

because travis wanted him to.

he needed him to.

he needed someone to say “you’re a monster” so he didn’t have to say it to himself.

but sal didn’t.

sal just sat there, blinking up at him like he was sad for him.

like travis was the one that got hurt.

like he knew.

god.

travis hated him.

travis hated himself.

travis hated everything.

the letter was still in his binder.

he thought about burning it.

but he couldn’t.

he thought about reading it again.

but he wouldn’t.

he thought about rewriting it.

but he didn’t know what he’d say.

“hey sorry i keep dreaming about holding your hand and then killing myself”

wasn’t exactly AP-level material.

his dad finally spoke.

voice low.

smoke curling from his lips.

“go on. head in. i’ll cover the holes.”

travis blinked.

looked at the sky.

still pitch black.

no sun.

no mercy.

“you sure?” he croaked.

his throat was dry from the cold.

his dad didn’t answer.

just flicked ash into the snow and turned away.

that was a yes.

travis didn’t wait.

he dragged himself back inside, hands shaking, jaw clenched so tight it might’ve cracked his own teeth.

his whole body felt like it had been buried.

not by snow.

not by dirt.

by something else.

he didn’t know what.

shame.

maybe.

or God.

or both.

he didn’t sleep.

just sat in bed for two hours with his boots still on.

staring at the ceiling.

the letter burned in the back of his mind like a cigarette pressed into skin.

and somewhere, behind the church, four holes waited for something.

or someone.

travis didn’t ask.

and he didn’t wanna know.

travis was dying.

like. actually dying.

like he was pretty sure his body was in the middle of shutting down one organ at a time just outta spite.

math class.

fourth period.

bright-ass lights.

clock ticking like a fucking bomb.

room hot as hell, like the heater was set to hellfire.

and him?

he was gone.

he hadn’t slept.

not in a “haha i stayed up too late watching cable” way.

in a haven’t closed my eyes in thirty hours and i think my brain is eating itself kind of way.

his body was a pile of bricks stacked into the shape of a teenager.

his head felt like it was full of bees.

his eyes burned like he’d washed them with bleach.

every blink felt like sandpaper.

every breath was a chore.

and to top it off—

god’s greatest joke—

sal fucking fisher was in this class.

sitting two rows up and to the left.

which meant every time travis’s tired-ass head dropped forward,

every time he lost track of the problem on the board,

every time his brain shut down for more than two seconds—

he was just staring at sal.

not on purpose.

he wasn’t a freak.

he wasn’t a fag.

he just—

he was tired, okay?

his eyes went where they went.

and they kept going back to the dumb pigtails.

that dumb mask.

that dumb sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up like he thought he was cool or whatever.

fuckin loser.

travis rubbed at his eyes, hard.

he couldn’t even remember the last problem they did.

something about slopes?

no. maybe it was quadratic bullshit.

the teacher was still talking.

writing something on the whiteboard.

but the marker squeaked every time she drew a number and it made his skull rattle.

travis hunched lower in his chair.

elbows on the desk.

head in his hand.

his pencil rolled off the table and clattered to the floor.

he didn’t pick it up.

he just stared at it for like forty-five years.

maybe longer.

maybe it wasn’t even his pencil.

maybe it never existed.

he closed his eyes for one second.

opened them.

sal was still there.

sitting up straight.

writing something down.

he hadn’t said shit to travis in three days.

not that travis expected him to.

after the punch?

after the letter?

fuck.

fuck fuck fuck.

he knew sal would never actually see the letter.

he never turned it in.

obviously.

he wasn’t suicidal.

but still.

he kept having these awful, sweaty nightmares where ms. danvers read it out loud to the whole class and sal looked him dead in the eye and said “fag” in the most disappointed voice imaginable.

which—

whatever.

it wasn’t even that gay.

he was just confused.

and tired.

and insane.

god was probably testing him.

or maybe god had already given up on him.

he hoped so.

sal shifted in his seat.

travis’s eyes tracked it without permission.

and then got stuck there.

just.

staring.

zoning out like a goddamn lunatic.

he could see the strap of the mask where it looped behind sal’s ear.

his hair falling around it.

probably soft.

not that he cared.

not that he noticed.

he was just—

he was just observing.

scientifically.

like a man.

a normal, god-fearing man.

who also maybe wanted to grab him by the collar and slam him into the locker and then—

no.

no.

no.

he scrubbed his hands over his face again.

“jesus fuck,” he whispered to himself.

this was hell.

math was hell.

his brain was melting.

sal was right there.

and he couldn’t think.

couldn’t breathe right.

his fingers were cold.

his toes were cold.

his stomach was eating itself alive.

and all he could think about was that fucking letter.

i can’t stop thinking about you.

i’m crazy about you.

i think you’re amazing.

what the fuck was he on.

he might as well have drawn a heart and dotted the “i”s with flowers.

he wanted to throw himself out the window.

he wanted sal to punch him.

just to even the score.

he wanted—

he didn’t know what he wanted.

except maybe sleep.

he blinked again.

longer this time.

sal’s arm moved.

he was writing again.

probably taking notes.

like a little overachiever.

travis hated him.

he stared harder.

maybe if he stared hard enough he’d start to hallucinate something interesting.

like sal catching fire.

or taking off the mask.

or looking at him.

god forbid.

travis shifted in his seat, heavy.

his eyelids were bricks.

the white noise hum of the lights overhead turned into some kind of lullaby from satan.

he put his head down on the desk.

just for a second.

just to rest.

he wasn’t gonna fall asleep.

he wasn’t.

he was stronger than that.

he was just—

so—

fucking—

tired.

his last thought before his brain shut off completely was that sal probably smelled like clean laundry or some faggy shit like that.

then:

darkness.

silence.

nothing.

thank fucking god.

the first thing travis noticed was that it wasn’t cold.

that was weird, considering it was always cold. it had been cold for weeks. his coat still stank like wet dirt and cigarette ash. his bones were still thawing out from that hell-digging shift behind the church. he remembered that.

but now?

it was warm.

sun was out.

sky was that fake-ass kind of blue you only see in commercials for cereal.

and—

someone was holding his hand.

softly. like it wasn’t a big deal. like it meant nothing.

except it meant everything.

he looked down.

yup.

there it was.

his own hand, clumsy and calloused and dirt-stained, tangled up with another one. pale fingers laced through his. black nail polish chipped at the edges. thumb rubbing lazy circles on his skin.

and then the voice came.

easy. light. soft like cotton.

“you daydreaming again, trav?”

trav.

what the fuck.

travis’s whole body went rigid like someone poured ice water down the back of his hoodie.

his eyes snapped up.

sal.

sal fucking fisher.

walking next to him on the sidewalk like this was normal. like they always did this. like travis hadn’t punched him last week and then written the gayest fucking letter in history about him.

he was wearing a dumb hoodie and ripped jeans.

the mask was on.

as always.

but even with it, travis could tell he was smiling.

he always could.

god help him.

travis swallowed.

his mouth felt dry.

“uh—what?”

sal laughed.

“you space out like that again, i’m gonna start thinking you’re bored of me,” he said, swinging their joined hands like they were in a romcom or some other faggy shit travis would never watch.

“‘m not,” travis muttered, looking down at the ground.

his voice came out quiet. hoarse.

like he hadn’t used it in a while.

maybe he hadn’t.

his feet kept moving though.

so did sal’s.

they were walking.

somewhere.

didn’t matter where.

just him and sal and a sunny sidewalk and no one yelling and no one bleeding and nothing bad.

weird.

too weird.

but he didn’t stop.

he didn’t ask.

his brain was buzzing like a busted lightbulb, all static and softness, but the warmth on his fingers felt real.

that tiny thumb rubbing back and forth.

that gentle tug when sal shifted a little closer, like he couldn’t not touch.

travis felt like a balloon with too much air in it.

one poke and he’d pop.

sal kept talking.

about something.

music, maybe. or movies. or some dumb cat he saw earlier.

travis only caught bits.

he just nodded when he was supposed to.

said “uh-huh” and “yeah” when he had to.

and sal would squeeze his hand in between words like he could tell travis wasn’t listening and didn’t care.

because sal was acting like they’d been together.

not just like a couple of weirdos walking home,

but like. boyfriends.

like travis was his.

and that was just—

nope.

nope nope nope.

don’t think about it.

don’t ruin it.

“you wanna go to the record store?” sal asked, already pulling him that direction.

“uh—sure?”

sal lit up.

he always lit up when travis said yes to things.

like it was some big goddamn deal.

travis didn’t know how he knew that. he just did.

and travis would act all annoyed about it, sure,

but secretly he—

no.

shut up.

the store was warm too.

and quiet.

and sal didn’t let go of his hand the whole time.

he just kept tugging him around, pointing at tapes and CDs, saying dumb shit like “you’d love this one” and “this band’s got that angsty boy vibe you like.”

travis would roll his eyes.

he had to.

or he’d smile.

and that was worse.

they didn’t buy anything.

they never did.

they just wandered.

then coffee.

then the park.

then sal got cold, even though it was sunny, and tucked his hand into travis’s coat pocket like it was the most casual thing in the world.

“your hands are always warm,” he said, smug.

“‘cause i’m alive, dumbass,” travis grumbled.

sal just laughed.

and then, at some point—

he didn’t remember how—

they were back at the place.

“their” place.

whatever the hell that meant.

small.

messy.

a couple mugs in the sink.

an ashtray on the table.

soft blankets.

soft everything.

sunlight coming through the window like God had finally gotten off His ass and decided to be nice to him for once.

travis layed on the couch.

sal was on him immediately.

not like on him. not clingy. just—

attached.

head on his shoulder.

arms around his middle.

hands sliding under his hoodie like it was the most normal shit in the world.

and travis just—

let him.

because his head was fuzzy.

and his chest was aching.

and sal smelled like detergent and something sweet he couldn’t name.

“you good?” sal asked, voice muffled against his neck.

travis grunted.

“just tired.”

sal hummed.

his fingers moved under travis’s hoodie.

not like that.

just soft.

slow.

touching the skin under his ribs.

travis swallowed hard.

“you’re always tired,” sal said. “you need to let me take care of you more.”

“you already do.”

sal sat up a little.

looked at him.

mask still on.

head tilted.

“yeah, but i wanna do more.”

travis stared at him.

his throat went dry.

his brain screamed something ugly and panicked.

he said nothing.

sal leaned in.

slow.

arms wrapped around him from behind now.

mouth near his ear.

“can i kiss you?”

travis stiffened.

“i mean. mask’s on.”

sal snorted.

“i can fix that.”

and then, smooth as ever, he reached behind himself, unhooked the mask, and—

travis didn’t see.

he couldn’t.

he wouldn’t.

he kept his eyes shut.

sal kissed him behind the ear.

slow.

not sloppy.

not weird.

not anything like travis imagined his first kiss would be.

just soft.

quick.

like a secret.

his hands curled into fists in his lap.

“i love you,” sal whispered, real quiet.

right into his skin.

and travis—

his hands were shaking.

he felt like he was gonna vomit.

his mouth opened.

closed.

opened again.

and then—

white.

blank.

gone.

the bell slammed into his skull like a fucking gunshot.

he jerked upright so fast his neck cracked.

his notebook slid off the desk.

his pencil hit the floor.

his eyes burned.

and sal was right there.

two rows ahead.

back turned.

slinging his bag over one shoulder.

mask tilted just slightly to the left like he’d scratched it during class or something.

same dumb blue pigtails.

same hoodie with the sleeves shoved up.

like he was just asking for someone to call him a fag.

travis stared.

hard.

like the longer he stared, the more fake it’d get.

but it wasn’t.

it wasn’t fake.

this was real.

the bell.

the heat.

the light stabbing down from the ceiling.

the sweat down his spine.

sal standing up and walking out of the room like travis hadn’t just dreamed about kissing him.

like he hadn’t just said—

nope.

no.

fuck that.

fuck everything.

travis shoved his binder into his bag with shaking hands and stood up too fast.

his desk screeched.

some girl looked at him.

he didn’t look back.

he stormed out the door.

hallway.

bright.

crowded.

voices everywhere.

someone laughing.

someone slamming a locker.

he didn’t hear any of it.

he was walking fast.

too fast.

like his body was trying to outrun the dream still dripping down his brainstem.

every step made it worse.

his face was hot.

his neck was soaked.

he could still feel it.

sal’s hands under his hoodie.

sal’s head on his shoulder.

sal’s lips on his neck saying—

“i love you.”

jesus fucking christ.

jesus fucking christ.

travis nearly tripped over some freshman and snapped at them with a glare.

didn’t say anything.

just power-walked past like he was being hunted.

and maybe he was.

maybe the devil was in his bloodstream.

maybe satan climbed in through the cracks and planted that dream right in his skull like a parasite.

he shoved into the boys’ bathroom like it owed him money.

empty.

thank god.

he kicked a stall door open and locked it behind him.

dropped his bag on the floor.

stood there.

just—

stood.

hands shaking.

chest heaving.

eyes wide.

his heart was going nuts.

slamming around like it wanted out of his ribcage.

like it wanted no part of this fag bullshit.

good.

he didn’t either.

he didn’t.

he wasn’t gay.

he wasn’t.

he wasn’t.

his mouth tasted like metal.

his palms were sweating.

his spine was buzzing.

that wasn’t normal.

none of this was.

he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet but didn’t puke.

just hovered there.

panting.

like maybe god would show up in the fucking toilet bowl and yank the gay out of him.

he clenched his teeth.

jesus christ.

jesus please.

what the fuck was wrong with him.

he felt sick.

like morally sick.

like hellfire sick.

and the worst part—

the worst fucking part—

was that it had been so good.

he’d liked it.

he’d liked it.

he liked it when sal touched him.

when he talked to him soft.

when he kissed behind his ear like it meant something.

he liked being held.

he liked the little apartment.

the quiet.

the sun coming through the window.

he liked the feeling that maybe—

maybe he wasn’t broken.

and that was the sickest part of all.

because it was broken.

he was broken.

normal boys didn’t dream that shit.

normal boys didn’t wake up half hard in math class staring at the back of their worst enemy’s dumbass head.

he shoved a hand into his backpack.

rummaged.

found it.

folded paper.

creased. wrinkled. familiar.

he yanked it out and stared.

the letter.

that stupid fucking letter.

the one he wrote with shaking hands like it was a confessional.

the one he hid.

the one he didn’t throw away.

i can’t stop thinking about you.

i’m crazy about you.

i think you’re amazing.

but i know these feelings are wrong.

wrong.

wrong.

he gripped the paper so hard it tore a little.

his eyes burned.

this was what hell felt like.

this was what sin did.

it crept in slow.

told you it was okay.

told you it was warm.

safe.

soft.

then woke you up in a public school math class ready to die.

he dropped the letter on the ground and stared at it.

some part of him wanted to rip it.

burn it.

eat it.

whatever.

but he didn’t.

he just looked.

and thought about sal.

and the dream.

and the way his hands felt on his ribs.

and the way his voice sounded when he said “i love you.”

and how fucking good it felt to hear it.

and how wrong that was.

and how he’d never forgive himself.

not for this.

not for any of it.

god wasn’t gonna fix him.

god was watching and laughing.