Chapter Text
Travis Phelps received one of the worst beatings of his life when he was eight years old, a mere few hours after coming home from choir rehearsal. His father had been waiting for him at the kitchen table. That was how he knew he was going to be hit.
At the time, Travis hadn’t truly understood why he was being punished, why he had to be taught a lesson. His father didn’t go into much detail, but he had elected to tell him, in a voice that was almost dangerously quiet, that Travis’ choral director had called him earlier that day with concerns about his behavior in class, specifically his interactions with another boy, Nathaniel. The older woman explained that the two boys’ closeness had become... uncomfortable, and she worried Nathaniel was a distraction.
“It’s those sort of distractions that can sway a young mind away from their rightful path,” she’d said. “And away from the love and devotion of Christ. I’m becoming afraid that Travis is being tempted by sin.”
Later that night, Travis’ father gave him an ice pack for the new bruise starting to form on his jaw, sat him down on the living room couch, and told him about sin. He told him that there were certain feelings in the world that were inherently sinful, inherently wrong. They were feelings that needed to be crushed beneath one’s heel in order to truly be rid of them and accept God into one’s heart. They were feelings that tainted your insides and made you disgusting. They were feelings that no man should ever have. They were feelings that no son of Kenneth Phelps should ever have. At the time, Travis had listened and nodded in compliance, but he hadn’t truly understood. Now, at sixteen, he did. But it was fine. He had attended an incredibly prestigious Christian camp for most of the summer before his freshman year, a camp designed specifically to cure sinners struggling with disgusting, shameful thoughts like those. Perhaps at one point Travis had had those thoughts. But now, he was cured.
He was cured. But sometimes he still felt sick.
Travis Phelps met Sal “Sally Face” Fisher on his third day of sophomore year, and he hated him immediately.
Sal was a lot of things that Travis despised. He was smart, without ever really trying. He finished every math exam with time to spare and aced almost all of them, the antithesis of Travis’ failing grades. He was eye-catching. He drew everyone’s attention the moment he entered a room, for better or for worse, but regardless of people’s reactions to him- his small and delicate stature, his unnaturally blue hair that he wore in disgustingly effeminate pigtails, his creepy prosthetic face that showed zero emotion- he never seemed phased. He hardly ever responded to harassment from his peers, and when he did, he was as calm as ever. Sal was always calm. Even when he did get angry, you could tell he still had a handle on his emotions. Travis didn’t possess that talent, never had, and Sal’s gentle nature pissed him off endlessly. He loathed how okay Sal seemed to be with himself, loathed how comfortable he seemed to be in his own skin. Everything about him made Travis scaldingly angry, but the thing that Travis hated the most about Sally Face was that he was a faggot.
His girly, childish hairstyle notwithstanding, Sal wore skirts to school. He wore bows in his hair. He drew little hearts and stars on his mask. He painted his fucking nails. Usually black, but every so often they’d be rainbow. He hung out with a fat kid with green hair, the fat kid’s goth girlfriend, a long-haired stoner guy who hated Travis almost as much as Travis hated Sal, and possibly the worst out of all of them, that gay nerd Todd. Ashley Campbell was the only normal one of the group, but Travis hated her too. She was always around Sal. She was always so touchy with Sal. That stoner kid too, they were always hanging around him, always with a hand on his shoulder, or the top of his head, fingers fiddling with the ends of his pigtails. It rubbed Travis in a way he didn’t truly understand. Then again, he didn’t truly understand a lot of things. What he did understand was that Sal “Sally Face” Fisher made his insides curdle.
But that shouldn’t have mattered. As his father often told him, out of sight, out of mind. Resentfulness was a very un-Christian-like attribute, and Travis knew the better choice to make would be to turn the other cheek. It wasn’t Travis’ job to cure Sal. That was in God’s hands. So, Travis looked the other way.
He found out quickly that looking away from Sal Fisher was much harder than he expected it to be.
He hated him, that’s what it was. That’s what it had to be. What else could make Travis’ skin prickle so much whenever Sal entered a room, whenever his gaze happened to make contact with the blue eyes hidden underneath that white prosthetic? He hated him, it was obvious, it was clear as day. What he felt was so easily identifiable as hatred.
Until, something changed.
The first time Travis noticed it, he was in algebra. It was October and Sally Face was wearing a light brown sweatshirt that was three sizes too big on him. It hung off of his petite frame in a way Travis couldn’t quite describe, but that he knew he absolutely loathed. The air in the room was warm and tired and Mrs. Packerton was attempting to get her sleepy class to solve the equation she’d just written on the board. Her thin eyes swept around the classroom once before landing on Travis. Of course.
“Mr. Phelps, you think you could try your hand at this one?”
Usually, Travis could keep his mouth shut. He could bury every sarcastic comment deep inside his mind where they couldn’t escape and get him in trouble. But that particular morning, he’d gotten less than four hours of sleep the previous night and he couldn’t stop fucking thinking about Sally in that dumbass oversized hoodie, so his guard was down a little. He shifted his chin from where he was propping it up on his hand and blew a strand of blonde hair out of his eyes.
“I think I’d rather stick my hand in a blender, actually,” he muttered, and behind him, Sal Fisher giggled.
Sal’s prosthetic face didn’t give much leeway for emotion or expression. No one could tell whether Sal was gritting his teeth or beaming behind that mask of his- although Travis had noticed that his eyes tended to scrunch up whenever he smiled- so to make up for the lack of facial mood cues, Sal’s body had instead directed the majority of his emotion into his voice. Sal’s voice was soft, gentle just like the rest of him was, but it was expressive like almost nothing Travis had ever heard. If Sal was confused, his voice had a constant tilt to it, as if everything he said was a question in and of itself. If Sal was annoyed, his voice would dip an octave deeper, low and grating against his vocal chords (Travis hated the way that made his insides shiver). And if Sal was amused, his voice grew warm and light, and his laugh- his laugh was something else. His laugh was the kind of laugh people would trip over themselves to cause.
Travis wasn’t tripping over himself, but he felt like he could after he made Sal laugh. He’d received detention for his oh-so-witty remark, but it didn’t matter as much to him as it should’ve. That was when the hatred started to feel a little bit like something else. That something else made Travis feel sick.
The bullying- Travis had enough morality to admit that’s what it was- started small. Disgusted looks, snide comments, rumors spread from classroom to classroom. Side swiping him in the hallway, spitting out a “watch where you’re going, freak” before ducking into a nearby bathroom, his head pounding after being hit by a waft of the cinnamon perfume Sal had been wearing. Travis had smelled cinnamon for the rest of the day after that. He hated how much he didn’t hate it.
Nothing worked. The days passed, and nothing changed. Every time Travis saw Sally Face, he felt sick. He hated himself for it. The bullying got worse.
Travis hated algebra. He wasn’t a star student by any means of the term, but math had always been his worst subject. He wasn’t mathematically inclined and had always preferred the more creatively driven classes, English and history in particular, so he wasn’t surprised that he was constantly teetering on the edge of failing algebra. It didn’t make it any better though, and it didn’t make his father any less angry about it.
His day had been horrible before it even started. Travis had been jolted awake by his alarm going off. He’d been roused from sleep gasping, sweaty and shaking, the last whisper of his dream slowly fading from his consciousness, and in that last whisper was a head of messy blue hair and the gentle touch of delicate fingers, so familiar and welcome that it was almost nauseating. Travis woke up feeling like he was going to vomit. His latest bruise, an angry purple halo around one hazel eye, still hadn’t faded. He knew people were going to notice it, and when he walked into his second period algebra class three hours later, it was that head of messy blue hair from his dreams that noticed it first.
“Jesus, man. Are you okay? What happened?”
Sal’s voice was feather light, just like it always was when he was concerned about something. Travis hated how much his heart shuddered at the idea that that concern was for him. He shot Sal an angry glare as students wove around the smaller boy to get to their desks.
“Nothing happened, Sally Face, and even if it did it’s none of your fucking business. Fuck off.”
A pause, and then Sal’s eyes squinted a bit, an indication that he was furrowing his brows. “Did someone do this to you? That’s horrible.”
Again with the fucking concern. The nausea was rising up again in his stomach.
“I told you to fuck off, Fisher! Take a hint, for fuck’s sake!”
Sal lingered for a moment. Travis drilled holes in the wood of his desk with his eyes. At the front of the room, Mrs. Packerton was shuffling papers and standing up to close the door, a clear indication that class was about to start.
“Mr. Fisher, please sit down. I’m about to start handing out the test.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sal replied. Travis had to physically stop himself from gritting his teeth at the response. Unending politeness- that was another thing Travis couldn’t stand about Sally Face. The blue-haired boy in front of him gave him one last lingering look before going to sit down. Travis focused on his breathing and rubbed the tiny silver cross he wore around his neck with his thumb.
The test went horribly, as expected. Travis hadn’t been able to focus in algebra all year. He’d always had trouble paying attention in that class- he’d never found math even slightly interesting- but this year was significantly worse. Whenever he felt himself starting to focus, Sal Fisher would raise his hand to answer a question (correctly, of fucking course) and Travis’ train of thought would instantly hit a dead end. He hated how easily Sal could distract him. And since Sal could so easily distract him, Travis had absorbed very little of the information Mrs. Packerton had attempted to grind into him. She placed the test packet face-down on his desk, and when she announced for everyone to turn their exams over and begin, Travis took one look at the first equation and knew he was screwed.
The numbers and letters on his paper looked like Greek to him, but Travis attempted to work through the equations. He was halfway through the test and had only answered six questions, and only felt satisfied with half of those answers. He could feel the anxiety in his chest curl uncomfortably tight and tried to shove it down. Panicking wouldn’t help, but fuck, he was panicking.
“Excuse me, Mr. Fisher.”
Travis looked up. Mrs. Packerton was staring at something over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. Silence, and then, “Sal, wake up!”
Wake up? Had Sal been sleeping? Travis wouldn’t be surprised, Sally Face fell asleep a lot in class. Sometimes Travis wondered if he had trouble sleeping, and then his brain reminded him that he didn’t give a shit. Behind him, there was a startled, groggy “huh?” and a shift of fabric as Sal’s head shot up from where it had been resting on his desk. Internally, Travis shoved down the urge to turn and see if his hair was messy from his nap.
“That doesn’t look like math to me.” Mrs. Packerton’s words were strict, but her tone was light. Everyone knew Sal was one of her favorite students and she couldn’t care less about how he doodled on his papers. He probably couldn’t do anything to actually make her upset.
“Oh, sorry.. I must’ve dozed off. I already finished the test.”
He what.
“I know, dear. You aced it as well. Very good.”
Travis pressed the tip of his pencil into his paper hard enough to break the lead. Of course. Of fucking course Sal had finished the test, aced it, and had enough time to take a precious little catnap on his desk. Of fucking course.
Mrs. Packerton smiled, slightly amused. “Just try to stay awake for the remainder of class, okay?”
“Sure.” Sal’s voice was apologetic. “It won’t happen again.”
Finally, he gave in to the urge to turn. One of Sal’s pigtails was slightly askew due to sleeping on top of a hard surface, strands of blue hair curling around the sides of his mask. The feeling that bloomed in his stomach at the sight of rumpled, sleepy Sal Fisher made his eyebrows cinch together and his nose wrinkle in disgust. He told himself it was disgust at Sal, but the thought lay uncomfortably in his mind.
“...... And Mr. Phelps, eyes on your own paper.”
Mrs. Packerton’s tone was significantly less kind now that she was addressing Travis. Before he could look away, Sal’s cornflower blue eyes flicked to the right and met his. The following rush of heat to Travis’ face was enough to make him want to snap his pencil in half. Hands shaking, he forced his gaze back to the exam in front of him.
He turned the test in at the end of the period with half the questions unanswered and a streak of grey lead from where he’d ground the tip of his pencil into the paper. He handed it to Mrs. Packerton face-down, and the look she gave him solidified his internal desire to crawl into a hole and die.
His father wasn’t going to be happy. It wasn’t enough to earn him another beating, but even then, it was up in the air. A lot of what Travis did nowadays earned him another beating.
When Travis exited the classroom, feeling exhausted even though it wasn’t even noon yet, the first person he saw was Sal Fisher. The second person was Ashley Campbell, but that didn’t help either. Their voices, though moderately quiet, carried across the semi-empty hallway.
“... yeah, I dunno. I was really nervous about that test. But it turns out I did okay! It was actually fairly easy.”
“Nice, Sal!” Ashley beamed at the shorter boy in front of her. “See, I knew you’d pass.”
Sal’s eyes gleamed at the praise as he thanked her. The affection, clear and distinctive in both their voices, made Travis’ ears burn. He knew he should just walk away, knew that today had already been shitty enough and he shouldn’t do anything to make it worse, but for some reason, he wanted Sal to look at him.
“Hey, freak!” His voice rang loud and aggressive in the quiet hall. Sal turned to face him, his pigtails bouncing as he did. Travis couldn’t see his expression, but next to him, Ashley’s face darkened considerably with dislike.
The feeling was mutual.
“Nobody likes a goody-two-shoes, Saaaally Face!” Travis added a sarcastic lilt to the nickname, stretching it out on his tongue in a drawl.
“Nobody likes a cliche bully, Traaaavis.” Sal’s voice dipped down in annoyance, though his demeanor remained calm. Travis’ hands curled into fists at Sal mimicking his mocking tone. The insides of his stomach curled into knots at Sal slurring his name.
“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Ash snapped, distaste sharp and clear in her voice. She took a small step closer to Sal and her hand reached out to him protectively. Seeing her fingers hovering so close to Sal’s arm made something bitter and hot unfurl in Travis’ chest.
“Shut up, bitch, I wasn’t talking to you.”
The words were spat out and Ash’s lip curled in anger, but she didn’t respond to Travis’ heckling. Next to her, however, Sal’s eyes flashed behind his mask.
“You know, if you take that stick out of your ass, you may actually enjoy yourself for once.” Sal’s voice was even lower now, darkened with his subtle but still noticeable irritation. “Maybe even make a friend or two.”
Something inside Travis snapped at those words. Or maybe it broke? He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. His anger was making it harder to breathe evenly. He could feel something building, in his chest, in the air. He knew that if this conversation continued he was going to do something he’d regret. But he was too angry to care about consequences, about repercussions. For once in his life, he was too angry to care.
“Fuck off, faggot!” The slur didn’t rouse any sort of reaction from Sally, but Ash let out a noise of fury and indignation. The two of them had gotten significantly closer to Travis- or had he gotten significantly closer to them? It didn’t matter. He gritted his teeth in a failed attempt to keep his emotions under control and tried to think of an intelligent rebuttal. “I have more friends than you’ll ever have!” Oh, great. Real slick, Travis, reverting back to grade school retorts and childlike lies. He was so fucking pathetic. His hands were shaking again. Sal wasn’t speaking. Was he backing down? Travis’ chest felt tight, coiled, a pressure he couldn’t quite describe, couldn’t even begin to understand, but that he knew throbbed almost as much as the bruise around his right eye did, almost as much as the words his father had said to him right before-
“You kiss your daddy with that tongue?”
Pain exploded from Travis’ knuckles where they collided with the cheek of Sally’s mask. The force of his blow sent Sal staggering three and a half steps back, almost losing his balance, his hands flying up to his face. When he straightened up again, Travis could see a small red bead making its way down his chin.
Ashley cried out in shock, reaching out to steady her friend, panic and worry overtaking her formerly furious expression. The anger returned almost immediately though, as her eyes snapped up to bore into Travis’. “What the hell, asshole?!”
Travis didn’t answer. He didn’t even meet her eyes. He stared at the ground as if looking at it hard enough would will it to swallow him whole, and walked away.
His entire body felt cold. He’d assumed becoming violent would make him feel like he normally did after lashing out at Sal, like his father felt after hitting him- relieved, satisfied, better, like a bit of weight had been lifted from his tensed shoulders- but it didn’t. It felt as if his chest had caved in. He felt sick. He felt as if he wanted to reach inside of himself and rip out his organs, rip out his stomach so that this horrible nauseous feeling that was eating at his insides would go away. His knuckles throbbed just like his black eye did, just like his father’s words, just like the look in Sal’s eyes when he looked up at the boy who’d just punched him across the face.
He’d just punched Sal across the face. He had just hit Sal fucking Fisher. If he didn’t have a chance before, he certainly didn’t have a chance now.
Travis felt like he was going to vomit.
He didn’t take the bus home that day. He didn’t take it the next morning, either. He didn’t want to see the hatred that was going to be in Sally Face’s eyes the next time he saw him.
Travis’ mother had always told him that the best way to truly understand one’s own emotions was to write them down. When you wrote down what you were feeling, you could pick through the jumbled thoughts in your mind, calm down your racing subconscious, and once you put said racing subconscious down on paper, it would become much less scary, much less formidable. It became something you could come to terms with. Maybe even accept. Travis didn’t think he could ever truly accept how he felt about Sally Face, but if God was kind, if God was merciful, maybe he could begin to come to terms with it.
Travis went home that night and started a letter to Sal Fisher.