Chapter Text
hair.
something travis always struggled with as he was younger, growing older. most often times, he do simple braids or twists for ease of never needing to touch them again for months.
unhygenic, he knows, but easy and simple. it took a few months of travis and devin living together for devin to truly realize his disregard for his body, mind and his hair.
devin was a firm believer in appearance equals health, keeping himself as pristine as possible—constant grooming for his hair, nails, so on. devin was maintained, and travis? he just stopped caring. his nails bitten raw, his eyebags like holes in his skin and he couldn't even think of the last time he brushed his teeth.
so finally, one day, devin had enough with his disregard for himself.
travis' knee dug into his chest as he leaned over it, hat casting just the blurriest thin of veiled shadows to his peripherals. his fingers, clutched around his cup, twitched as his opposite remained raised to his mouth, biting the tips of his fingers till they bled. coppery, unsavory, and disgusting.
devin rounded the corner of the kitchen and slammed a box on the counter—slammed? maybe more aggressively placed—causing travis to jolt and shove his fingers out of his mouth. "uh," his eyes focused on the box. devin pulled out a few things from the box—scissors, braid twists in various colors, gel, and very many other things he knew all familiar with.
"i want to do your hair and, well, i did some research," ironic, he could care more about his appearance than him. "and i think we need to fix this—" devin waves a comb at his unkempt hair underneath his hood, "or you at least need help with it. you look rough, dude!"
this felt like the most humbling moment of travis' life. if he could sink into the floor, never to be seen again, he would. whether or not "yes" or "no" came out of his mouth, he couldn't outrun needing to take care of himself.
so he just sat there in the chair, deathly still like a pillar as he watched the old braided hair from ages ago drop to the ground. he wondered how many memories they held, how much was left of him without his truly, apparently, depressed image. travis doesn't move from his spot, eyes fixated on the wood grain of their table and the figure in the corner of his eyes.
he hated people touching him, spreading their warmth like an infectious touch. devin's fingers against his scalp felt more like a lighter burning holes into his palm, or maybe swallowing gasoline and lighting it. unsavory, was all he could think, devin must think i'm truly disgusting and helpless.
it took hours to finish it—his hair—without travis trying to escape like an unhappy animal trapped in a cage. backed into a corner, picked up off the streets and shoved with a stomach full of warm food and sickeningly sweet warmth of a house.
he felt like devin's responsibilty more than his friend.
soon, devin's hands retracted to wash his hands. travis moved, slowly, to retreat to the bathroom to observe himself.
a figure in the mirror stared back. eyes deep, but his hair moderately shorter, softer. his lips were cracked and bloodied, days of misuse of sucking on them out of fear.
he didn't recognize himself, and his stomach felt ill. slapping his hand over the knob of the door, he shut it as quietly as he could, waiting until the click of the door shut to drop to his knees in front of his miserable iron lung.
he lost what he had left of his lunch. travis wasn't thankless to devin but now, now, his debt grows. the god-awful voice in his head fills his ears with disillusioned words and, god, when did it become so late?
eventually, he laid his head against the bath tub after heaving himself sick over the toilet. he closed his eyes for a moment, and sleep overcame him.