Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It wasn't right the way he walked around like nothing was wrong. Like the mask didn't make him look like some kind of freak crawling out of hell. And what the hell was with the random pink bit? Sal Fisher, Sally Face. Every time Travis heard that name, it twisted his stomach. Nobody should look like that. Nobody should be like that.

He told himself it was pity at first. That was what good Christians were supposed to feel in situations like this, right? Pity for the broken, the lost, and the sinful. But the truth was much simpler: every time Sal looked at him with those pale blue eyes behind that mask, it felt like a dare. Like he was mocking him, everyone actually. At least that's how he saw it.

Travis shoved the thought down as he always did. His father's voice rattled in his skull. The wages of sin is death. Evil wears many faces, son. You’ll know it when you see it. And hadn’t he seen it? Right there in the hallway every damn day, shoulders hunched under that ratty hoodie, mask strapped across a face God himself must’ve turned away from.

Travis made sure everyone else knew it, too. A shove into lockers, a hissed "freak" in the cafeteria line. He’d spit out the words before he even thought them, watching Sal flinch or roll his eyes or sometimes just go quiet. That silence drove Travis insane, like Sal thought he was above it all. Like he didn’t care what anyone said.

And that was worse.

Because if Sally Face didn't care, then why couldn't he stop? Why did he lie awake some nights replaying the moments, the sharp rhythm of his own voice, the way Sal’s head tilted just so?

Travis stopped himself. He hated Sal. That was the truth, and there wasn’t room for anything else. Hatred was clean, righteous, something his father would understand. Something he could understand.

So when sitting in algebra, he was called out for staring over his shoulder back at Sal, jaw tight, fingers drumming against his desk, Travis told himself it was only because he was making sure the freak wasn’t up to something. That was it. That was all.

Travis huffed and looked forward. Algebra was stupid, too. Who thought of putting letters in math? Probably the devil if Travis was honest with himself. Maybe that's why Sal was so good at it. Maybe only sinful people were good at algebra? Travis wondered if he could use that explanation with his father when he was inevitably asked why he was doing so poorly in math.

When Travis zoned back into class and what was happening around him, he caught their teacher, Mrs. Packerton, speaking to Sally Face.

"I know, dear. You aced it as well, very good. Just try to stay awake for the remainder of class, okay?" She praised.

Travis's scowl deepened.

"Sure," Sal replied with a little nod. "It won't happen again."

"And Mr. Phelps," Mrs Packerton said, turning her attention to Travis, causing him to jump a little. "Eyes on your own paper."

Travis was reluctant to hand in his test; he knew he didn't do well, he could feel it in the pit of his stomach. He had gone over it over and over again, but he just didn't understand. How could he? How could Sal understand? It was all so stupid. He handed in his paper, deliberately placing it upside down before he left the classroom.

Lunch was next, thank God.

Travis stopped off at his locker to put some books away and grab others for his last few classes of the day. He could do this after lunch, but that was what everyone did, so it was just easier to do it now.

Hearing a painfully familiar voice to his right, Travis glanced around the door of his locker to see if he was right about who he thought it was. Of course, he was; there was Sal Fisher and his friend Ashley Campbell. Travis hated her, too. If anyone could be friends with someone as sinful as Sal clearly was, then she must be sinful by proximity.

Travis closed his locker with a thud, making sure it was locked before he made his way over. He wasn't thinking about what he was doing, just acting on an impulse he was sure was what God would've wanted of him.

"Hey freak!" Travis called out. He paused until Sal turned to face him. "Nobody likes a goody-two-shoes, Saaally Face."

"Nobody likes a cliche bully, Traaavis," Sal snapped back, he was almost teasing, Travis hated it.

"Don't you have something better to do?" Ash said, a scowl etched across her face as she stepped a little closer to Sal.

For whatever reason, that angered Travis even more. "Shut up bitch! I wasn't talking to you."

"You know, if you took that stick out of your ass, you may actually enjoy yourself for once. Maybe even make a friend or two," Sal cut in.

"Fuck off faggot!" Travis snapped. "I have more friends than you'll ever have!"

"Do you kiss your daddy with that tongue? " Sal asked. "I'm sure he—"

Travis didn't remember when he decided to punch Sal in the face, or if he made that decision at all. One moment, he was standing there with his fists clenched, and the next, he was quickly walking away, pretending like his right hand wasn't aching from the blow.

"What the hell asshole!?" Ash yelled after him. Travis flipped her off as he rounded the corner.

Travis stepped into the bathroom, which was thankfully empty. He stood at the sink and held his right hand underneath some cold water. He hated the way the ache in his hand felt good for a second. Hated the way it shut Sal up, wiped that calm, mocking tone from his mouth. He hated that he could still see those pale eyes staring at him.

If he went to the nurse, they'd ask what happened and just give him a shit bag of ice wrapped in a paper towel. Travis was practically doing the same thing, and this way, no one would question him about his hand; this way, his father probably wouldn't find out.

Travis Phelps had a complicated relationship with physical violence. It was bad most of the time, sure, but there were some places where it was deserved. Travis felt this was deserved. Travis looked up at himself and his black right eye.

Sally Face should've never mentioned his father. He didn't have to go there.

Travis shut off the sink and thought over the rest of his day. He was pretty sure he didn't have any more classes with Sal; maybe it would be best to lie low for the rest of the day.

Chapter Text

Travis woke to the stinging in his eye. The pillow hadn't helped much, nor had the ice pack he'd kept overnight. Bruises throbbed no matter what you pressed against them. He pushed himself up, blanket twisted around his legs, and blinked blearily at the alarm clock. Too early. It was always too early.

The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against his ears. His father was already gone or in his study, buried in scripture. Either way, it didn’t matter. Silence never lasted.

He shuffled to the bathroom, splashed cold water over his face, and caught sight of himself in the mirror. The bruise had deepened overnight, an ugly purplish bloom stretching around his right eye. He touched it gingerly, jaw tightening. The story he’d tell at school was already forming: a locker door accident, maybe basketball in the gym. Anything but the truth.

His father’s words from the night before came back, sharp as the strike itself: You shame me. You shame me when you fail.

Travis clutched the sink. He hated the heat rising behind his eyes, hated how badly he wanted to hear something else. Approval, pride, anything but shame and disappointment.

By the time he reached school, the hallways were a blur of noise and bodies. He kept his head down, shoulders squared. A few people glanced at his face and quickly looked away. No one asked. Good.

Then, of course, there was Sally Face.

He was by his locker again, that same hunched posture, Ash and Larry at his side. Travis told himself to keep walking. Just get to class, keep out of trouble, and make it through the day. But his eyes snagged on the blue hair, the mask, the way Sal turned his head just slightly as if he knew he was being watched.

Travis looked away first.

In first period, the teacher droned on about something Travis couldn’t care less about. His thoughts kept circling. Not about the lesson, not even about the bruise. About Sal. The way his voice had snapped back yesterday, calm and sharp at once. The way he hadn’t looked scared, even with a fist coming toward him.

Travis told himself it was anger. That Sal should’ve shut up when told, should’ve kept his mouth shut about fathers and sticks and everything else. But the truth was uglier: he kept replaying that moment because it meant Sal had actually looked at him. Really looked, not past him, not through him.

The bell rang, shoving him out of his thoughts. He shoved his books into his bag and stormed out before anyone else, jaw tight.

He hated Sally Face. That was the truth. It had to be. Because if it wasn’t, Travis didn't know what it was.

The morning dragged. Second period, third period. Travis sat through them without hearing much of anything, doodling aimless shapes in the margins of his notes just to keep his hands busy. Every so often, someone’s eyes flicked toward him, landed on the bruise, then darted away like they hadn’t seen a thing. Cowards. At least he knew what they were thinking: Travis must’ve picked a fight and lost.

By the time fourth period rolled around, Travis’s nerves were stretched thin. Algebra. Of course, it had to be Algebra. He hated the subject anyway, hated the smug way numbers refused to bend to reason, and hated even more that Sal Fisher seemed to glide through it without effort.

He took his usual seat, tapping his pencil against the desk. Don’t look back. Don’t give him the satisfaction. He kept repeating it like a prayer.

It didn’t matter. He felt those pale eyes on him the moment Sal sat down a few seats back. Maybe he was just imagining it. But what would that mean?

Mrs. Packerton started the lesson, but Travis caught only fragments: equations, variables, graphs. He stared hard at his notebook, though the page stayed empty. His head throbbed in rhythm with his bruised eye. It felt like he was starting to get a headache…

Then a low voice behind him cut through the haze. “You should put ice on that.”

Travis froze. He didn’t turn around, didn’t breathe. He told himself he misheard, that it couldn’t have been meant for him. But then—

“It looks bad.”

Sal. Of course, it was Sal.

Heat flared in Travis’s chest, climbing up his neck. He gripped his pencil so tightly it nearly snapped. Slowly, he turned halfway in his seat, meeting those pale eyes behind the mask. They weren’t mocking this time. They weren’t even smug. Just… steady.

“What the hell do you care?” Travis hissed under his breath.

Sal shrugged like it didn’t matter, like it was just an observation. “Just saying.”

The words should’ve been easy to dismiss, but Travis couldn’t stop staring. Couldn’t stop thinking about how no one else had said a damn thing all day. Not teachers, not classmates. No one but Sal.

He whipped back around in his chair, jaw clenched, face burning. His father’s voice roared in his head.

Travis scribbled nonsense on his paper until the bell rang.

The cafeteria buzzed with the usual chaos. Clattering trays, kids yelling across tables, the smell of grease, and something that was supposed to be pizza. Travis grabbed his food without looking at what was on the tray. Didn’t matter. It tasted like cardboard anyway.

Halfway through picking at his food, he heard them. That stupid laugh, Larry Johnson’s, loud and grating. And of course, he wasn’t alone. Ashley Campbell was right beside him, as was their friend, who Travis was pretty sure was named something like Todd, and trailing behind, mask and all, was Sal Fisher.

Travis’s stomach dropped as the four of them veered toward the row of tables near his. Of all the empty spots in the room, they had to pick the one right next to his. Larry plopped down first, Ash slid in across from him, Todd and Sal sat on the end, close enough that Travis could see the edge of his ridiculous blue hair from the corner of his eye.

He grit his teeth. God was testing him, had to be.

“Look who it is,” Larry said, smirking, voice loud enough for the whole table to hear. “Phelps decided to show his bruised mug today. Did dear old dad give you that one himself, or did you earn it?”

Travis snapped his head over to look at Larry. Heat surged through him. “At least I have a dad,” he shot back, teeth clenched.

Ash’s eyes went wide, and she leaned forward, ready to explode. “Watch it, asshole,” she spat, voice low but sharp. “You don’t get to talk to anyone like that here.”

Larry looked like he was about to snap, but before he could, Sal grabbed his arm to keep him seated and spoke again to Travis. “You know, Travis,” he said softly, voice carrying that same weight that made people feel like they were being seen in a way they weren’t ready for, “all that shouting and chest-thumping… doesn’t make you look tough. It just makes you loud.”

Travis froze, jaw tightening. He wanted to fire back something clever, something cutting, but the steady tone of Sal’s voice… it unnerved him more than Larry’s insults ever did.

“Oh, what now? The freak thinks he’s a psychologist or something?” Travis said back.

Ash rolled her eyes. “Ignore him, Larry. Just… ignore him.” She said that when she saw Larry's fists were still clenched. "He's not worth it."

He shoved his tray away and stood abruptly. “Whatever,” he muttered, backing up. “Enjoy your freak show.”

Travis stormed out of the cafeteria, tray abandoned, the noise of laughing kids and clattering chairs fading behind him. The hall stretched ahead, empty enough to give him space to breathe.

The hallway was quieter than the cafeteria, but Travis’s pulse was still pounding in his ears. His fists clenched and unclenched as he stormed down the corridor, ignoring the few stragglers still drifting around. He shoved open the bathroom door, the hinges squealing, and let it slam shut behind him.

The echo filled the space.

Travis leaned over the sink, staring into the mirror. His bruise stood out darker than ever, a purple bloom spreading beneath his eye. His chest heaved.

“They don’t know anything,” he muttered. “They don’t know shit about me."

He pressed his hands to his forehead and let out a shaky breath. “I hate them. I hate all of them,” he whispered, voice rough. “I hate Sally Face.”

But even as he said it, the words rang hollow.

Travis pulled his phone from his pocket and flipped it open. Hesitantly, he called his father's personal phone. However, when that call didn't go through, he placed a call to the phone in his father's office at the church; this time, he answered.

The receiver clicked, followed by the deep, measured voice of Kenneth Phelps. “Phelps Ministry. Pastor Phelps speaking.”

“Uh, hey—Dad. It’s me.”

There was a pause. A sigh heavy enough to carry through the line. “Travis. This number is for church business. You know that.”

“I—I know. Sorry. I just… I wasn’t feeling too good, and I was wondering if maybe you could bring home some Tylenol or something? My head’s killing me.”

Another pause. Then his father’s voice, calm but edged like a blade. “Your head hurts because of your choices, son. Not because of anything else.”

Travis swallowed, shifting the phone against his ear. “I just thought—maybe you could—”

Kenneth cut in, voice rising slightly. “What lesson would you learn if every ache and pain were dulled with a pill? Pain is a reminder. A reminder of where you fall short and what God expects of you. You should be grateful for it.”

Travis’s grip tightened on the phone. His free hand curled into a fist at his side. “I wasn’t—I’m not trying to complain. I just… I thought you might—”

“I have a sermon to prepare for tonight, which you will be at,” Kenneth said, finality in his tone. “And if you put half as much effort into your studies as you do into whining, I wouldn’t be receiving calls like this during the Lord’s work. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

A moment of silence. For a second, Travis thought maybe his father would soften. Maybe he’d say he’d bring something anyway, or that they’d talk about it later. Instead, the line went dead.

Travis lowered the phone slowly, staring at the black screen until his reflection warped across it. His chest burned with something he didn’t want to name.

Travis stared at the phone for a long time, thumb hovering over the keypad like maybe if he pressed redial, things would be different. Like maybe his father would pick up again, and this time say the words he’d wanted to hear.

I’ll bring something home. You’ll be alright, son. Love you.

But the phone stayed silent.

He flipped it closed and shoved it back into his pocket, harder than he meant to, and braced himself against the sink again. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror: swollen bruise under one eye, the skin dark and ugly. He looked wrecked. He looked weak.

The kind of weakness his father hated.

His throat tightened, hot and painful. He dropped his gaze to the tile floor, his shoulders trembling before he could stop them. He hated how quickly the tears came, hated that he couldn’t swallow them back down. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, but the throbbing only got worse.

“Just once,” he muttered, voice ragged. “Just once, can’t you care?”

His own reflection didn’t answer. It never did.

The weight of everything crashed down. Last night’s strike, today’s bruises, Sal’s steady eyes in math class, Larry’s cruel words, Ash’s scowl, and his father’s cold dismissal. It all knotted in his chest until he couldn’t tell where the anger ended and the hurt began.

He slid down the wall beside the sink until he was crouched on the floor, pulling his knees close, trying to breathe through the pounding in his skull. He’d never admit it to anyone, not even to himself if he could help it, but in that moment, he felt small. Smaller than he ever wanted to be.

Travis pressed his forehead to his knees, the words slipping out in a whisper he hoped God couldn’t hear:
“I hate this. I hate him. I hate… everything.”

Chapter Text

Travis sat on the edge of his bed, buttoning up the stiff white shirt his father expected him to wear on sermon nights. His black eye had remained the same, an ugly, dark purple, for the past few hours. Travis told himself, At least it wasn't getting any worse, but the headache was still there, pulsing steadily behind his temple. He tugged his collar straight and avoided the mirror.

He told himself it didn’t matter. The sermons mattered. His father’s voice mattered. Travis’s job was to sit in the front pew, silent and obedient, proof to the congregation that Pastor Phelps’s house was in order.

The walk to the church was a short distance. The Phelps Ministry loomed against the evening sky, its white-painted steeple already glowing under the floodlights. Travis kept his head down as families filed inside, children in clean clothes, parents shaking his father’s hand with smiles wide enough to hide anything. Kenneth Phelps returned every greeting with practiced warmth. His hand fell heavy on Travis’s shoulder once or twice, steering him toward the usual pew.

When the service began, the sanctuary hushed. His father stepped up to the pulpit, Bible in hand, and opened with the measured cadence of a man used to being heard.

“Brothers and sisters,” he began, voice deep and steady, “tonight I speak to you on the dangers of temptation. The way sin creeps into our lives, wearing faces that seem innocent, harmless, even friendly.”

Travis sat up straighter; even he could feel the way his shoulders tensed.

“The devil is cunning,” He continued, pacing slowly. “He hides his snares in bright colors, in false kindness, in brokenness that begs for your sympathy. But make no mistake. Evil wears many faces. And it is the duty of the faithful to see through the mask.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the pews. Travis’s stomach clenched. The mask. His father’s words always circled back there, like Kenneth could see the hallways of Nockfell High as clearly as Travis did.

His father’s hand slammed against the pulpit. “The wages of sin is death! That is not my word—that is God’s! And though the world may mock us, though they may call us hateful, we know the truth. To coddle sin is to join it! To excuse sin is to become its servant. And I, for one, will not kneel to the devil!”

The congregation erupted, “Amen!” and “Yes, Lord!” filling the sanctuary. Travis flinched at the sound, though he kept his face neutral. His father’s gaze swept the room, sharp as a blade, daring anyone to disagree.

“The time will come when each of you must decide,” He pressed on, voice rising. “Will you turn away from the easy smile of temptation? Will you protect your family from the rot of sin? Or will you invite the devil to sit at your table!”

Travis’s throat felt tight. His headache throbbed worse with every word. Still, he sat there, still and silent, the dutiful son in the front pew. His father’s son.

When the sermon ended, his father shook hands again, offered prayers, and smiled at the congregation. Travis followed a step behind, invisible in the shadow of the man everyone praised.

The drive home was quiet at first, the hum of the engine filling the space between them. Travis pressed his palms against his knees, working up the nerve to speak.

“Dad?” His voice came out smaller than he wanted.

His father kept his eyes on the road. “What is it, son?”

“I was wondering…” Travis hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “If maybe we could stop at the store? Just for some pain medicine. My head’s been—”

“You’re still on about that?” His tone snapped sharply, the warmth from the pulpit gone. “I told you already. Pain is a lesson. God put it there for a reason. And if you were wise, you’d be asking Him for strength, not begging me for pills.”

Travis’s chest tightened. He swallowed the lump in his throat, staring out the passenger window. The lights of the gas station blurred past, too quickly for him to hope. “Yes, sir,” he murmured.

His father said nothing more. The hum of the car filled the silence until they pulled into the driveway, headlights washing across the pale siding of their house.

Travis sat there for a moment after the engine cut off, hand hovering on the door handle. The sermon still echoed in his head. Evil wears many faces. You’ll know it when you see it.

He wondered if his father ever noticed how often he aimed those words right at his son.

His father shut the front door with a sharp click and hung his jacket on the hook by the entryway. Travis lingered near the stairs, hoping stupidly that maybe his father would just go straight to his office.

Instead, his father turned on him, his expression colder than the night air.
“You were sulking tonight,” he said flatly.

Travis blinked. “No, sir. I—”

“Do not lie to me.” His voice was like a whip. “You sat there with your head down the whole sermon, looking like an abused dog. Do you think people didn’t notice? Do you think they didn’t see the disrespect on your face?”

Travis’s heart pounded. He shook his head quickly. “I wasn’t—I was listening, I promise.”

“Then prove it,” His father snapped. “Tell me the sermon. Word for word. Right now.”

Travis’s throat went dry. He could remember pieces, the mask, the wages of sin, but the pounding in his head blurred the rest. He stammered, trying to pull something together. “You said… temptation is dangerous. And that we shouldn’t—shouldn’t let sin into our lives, or it—”

“That’s all you heard?” His father’s eyes narrowed as he interrupted Travis. “That’s all you can repeat back to me after I spent an hour delivering the Lord’s word?”

“I was listening, I swear I was! I just—”

“Pathetic.” his hand lashed out before Travis could finish. The slap cracked across his already bruised face, sending a white-hot sting through his skull.

Travis stumbled back, clutching his cheek, but his father followed, looming over him. “Do you think God wants a son who can’t even pay attention for one hour? Do you think I can stand up there, preaching discipline and righteousness, with you making a mockery of me in the front row?”

Tears welled in Travis’s eyes, and he shook his head furiously, desperate to make it stop. His lips parted, trying to force the words out, but nothing came. His chest hitched with a sob he couldn’t swallow.

Kenneth’s face hardened. “Weak,” he spat. “You can’t even speak. No wonder the devil circles you like a vulture.”

The blows came harder this time, sharp, punishing, each one a lesson branded into his skin. Travis gasped, choking on his own breath, too dizzy to count how many strikes landed.

When Kenneth finally stepped back, his breathing was steady, controlled, like nothing had happened. He pointed toward the stairs. “Go to your room. And pray. Pray for strength, because clearly, I’ve been too lenient.”

Travis staggered toward the staircase, gripping the railing with shaking hands. His legs felt like they might give out, but he forced himself up, one step at a time. At the top, he dared a glance back. Kenneth had already turned away, straightening his jacket, like he hadn’t just torn his son apart.

Travis shut his bedroom door behind him and collapsed onto the bed. His face throbbed, his chest ached, and every breath scraped raw. He pressed his pillow over his mouth to muffle the sobs, whispering broken fragments of prayer between gasps, hoping somehow God might hear what his father never would.

Chapter Text

Travis crept down the stairs, each step slow, careful. The bruise under his eye had darkened overnight, and the yellow-green smudges all over him made his skin feel tight and hot. His head throbbed, a dull drumbeat that wouldn’t stop no matter how he pressed his fingers against it.

His father was already in the kitchen, apron tied neatly over his clothes. The smell of frying bacon and eggs hit Travis before he even stepped into the room. His father didn’t look up immediately. Instead, he placed a plate on the table, then turned to face him, arms crossed. “You’re not going to school today,” his father said, calm, measured.

Travis froze. “I… I feel fine, sir.”

“You don’t,” his father corrected. “I called the school already. Told them you are sick. They’ll mark you excused.” He tapped the table lightly. “You will eat your breakfast. Then I want your phone.”

Travis’s stomach twisted into an even tighter knot. He wanted to argue, but the throbbing in his head and the tight line of his father’s mouth stopped him. He slid into the chair and kept his gaze low as he picked up the fork and began to eat.

The breakfast was silent except for the scrape of utensils and the occasional clink of glass hitting the table. His father moved with practiced efficiency; everything about Kenneth Phelps was perfect. Travis didn’t understand why he couldn’t be more like his father.

Once they were finished eating, his father gestured with his hand. “Hand over your phone.”

Travis did as he was told. He felt a pit open in his stomach as the device left his hand. No calls. No messages. Nothing to distract him from the pounding in his head or from his father’s watchful eyes.

“Back to your room,” he said, adding a dismissive hand wave. “I’ll be leaving soon, and I want you to stay put. Read your bible and do your homework. This is for your own good.”

Travis obeyed, climbing the stairs slowly, every step a reminder of how small he felt. In his room, he sat on the edge of his bed, wrapped in the blanket, listening to the sounds of his father moving around downstairs. The clink of dishes, then finally the click of the front door unlocking and locking again. He could hear the soft rumble of the car; his father had left for work. He sat still for a few moments more, staring at the floor. In his mind, he knew the truth. His father wasn’t thinking about his lesson or mercy.

He was thinking about appearances, about hiding bruises, about control.

Travis believes he deserves this. That the bruises, the pain, the humiliation, all of it, was punishment for his own sins. For daring to disobey his father. Kenneth Phelps was a pastor; he'd raised Travis to be devout in his faith. Why couldn't Travis be a better son?

Hours passed. The silence of the house pressed in on him, broken only by the faint sound of the neighbor’s lawn mower or the wind against the windows. Travis stayed in his room, quiet and still, waiting for the long day to end, his mind spinning with pain, guilt, and a lonely sense of something he couldn’t quite name.

Travis had just curled up on the edge of his bed when the sharp, insistent ring of the home phone downstairs cut through the silence. His stomach twisted as he made his way out of his room and quickly to the phone. His father should be home any minute now. It wasn't uncommon for him to stay late at work and call Travis to let him know to have dinner on his own.

"Hello?" Travis said hesitantly into the phone after raising it to his ear.

“Uh… hey. Is this… Travis?” The voice was careful, uncertain, and strange in a way that made Travis freeze. It wasn’t his father.

"…Who is this?” Travis’s heart hammered; he didn't know why he asked. He knew who this was. Perhaps he just wanted confirmation. His fingers gripped the receiver like it was a lifeline. "I-I can't be talking to you—"

“I—look, it’s Sal. Sal Fisher,” came the reply, soft but steady. “Mrs. Packerton said… She thought maybe I could help you with the math since you've been struggling. I know we don't get along, but—"

Travis’s chest tightened. His voice caught in his throat. “I—I can’t. My dad… he—” He swallowed hard, panic rising. “I can’t be talking to anyone. Much less you.”

There was a pause. "Hey, are you okay? You sound really panicked…"

"I'm fine!" Travis snapped and immediately felt a pang of guilt at the sharpness of his own voice. He wanted to tell Sal to go away, but there was something… it made him hesitate to put the phone down.

Sal’s voice softened, patient, almost coaxing. "Travis, I'm serious… if you're not okay, you can tell me—"

Travis’s throat burned. He could feel tears threatening to slip past his control, but he gritted his teeth. “I’m… fine. I’m fine.” His words were brittle, hollow.

There was another pause. “You don’t sound fine,” Sal said. “I know you probably don’t want anyone knowing if something happened… and I’m not trying to get you in trouble, really. I just—”

Travis gripped the receiver tighter, his knuckles white. “I… I can’t. I—just—goodbye.”

“Travis! Wait!” Sal’s voice was frantic now, a mix of worry and urgency, but Travis had already slammed the receiver back into its cradle.

He stood there, trembling, staring at the phone, a strange mixture of relief and panic flooding through him. That was the first time he'd spoken to anyone but his father since last night.

He hated the fact that it was nice to hear Sal's voice.

Knowing his father would be home any minute, Travis headed back upstairs. He sat at his desk with his bible and homework in front of him, just like his father had instructed him to do.

His father did not come home for the next few hours, and the sun was setting. Travis sat at his desk quietly reading a page of the bible when his father pushed the door open. When Travis looked up at him, his father looked pleased to see Travis like this.

"Have you finished your homework?" His father asked.

"…Most of it. There's one thing for my algebra class I need to ask Mrs. Packerton about, but I did the rest of it," Travis explained.

His father gave a short nod, his eyes scanning the room as if he were making sure everything was 'in order.' “Good,” he said finally, his tone clipped but approving. “Make sure you stay on top of it. No excuses.”

Travis nodded quietly, gripping his pencil a little too tightly. He could feel the lingering ache in his eye and the dull throb across his head, the bruises painting every movement with discomfort.

Kenneth towered over his son, watching him with that same calculating gaze for a while before he spoke again. "It's good you're learning your lesson, Travis. The world is a dangerous place full of temptation and sin; you must be strong enough to withstand all temptation. You are my son, I expect the best from you." Kenneth's hand landed on Travis's shoulder. Travis whinced as the hand landed on one of the bruises. His father did not react to this. "I do this for your own good, you know. God demands perfection of us; some lessons must be learned the hard way."

This was the closest thing to affection Travis ever saw from his father. Travis only nodded along obediently. Travis knew he deserved punishment for his actions; who was he to question the word of his father? The word of God?

"One day, you will follow in my footsteps, Travis. When you have learned all there is to know of the bible and God and our congregation. You just have more to learn, that's all."

The pastor straightened and, without another word, reached onto the edge of Travis’s desk. He set a small bottle of pain medication down beside him. Travis’s fingers itched to pick it up, relief mingling with a strange sense of guilt.

His father gave him a brief look and then turned and left the room. The soft click of the door closing left Travis alone. Travis took the pills almost as soon as the door closed, only two of them. He took a sip from his water and let his eyes fall closed.

Travis pushed open the door to the classroom, careful not to draw attention. Most of the bruises had faded, just faint yellow-green smudges around his eyes, face, arms, and torso. But he still felt raw, self-conscious, and painfully aware of every stare.

Mrs. Packerton glanced up from the front of the room and offered a small, encouraging smile. “Welcome back, Travis. I hope you’re feeling a bit better.”

Travis murmured a quiet thanks and slid into his seat. His backpack thudded onto the floor, heavier than usual with the extra assignments he’d missed from his first two classes. Algebra always felt like a wall he couldn’t climb, and the days away hadn’t helped.

He opened his notebook, flipping to the page where he had last worked before falling behind. Numbers and formulas blurred together, and his pencil hovered uselessly over the page.

Sally Face, unusually, sat in the seat next to Travis instead of a few rows back where he normally sat. Travis scowled and tried to focus on his notes with no luck. He was even more lost than he usually was. Travis sat back in his seat with a huff, running a frustrated hand through his hair. He suffered in silence for the rest of the class period.

After class, while Travis was dropping things off at his locker, Sal appeared at his side.

"What do you want, Sally Face?" Travis grumbled, mostly to himself.

"I meant what I said on the phone," Sal said. Travis stiffened at the mention of that phone call. "If you need help…" There was a deliberate pause before Sal spoke again. "With—algebra. I don't mind helping you catch up as long as you're not an ass to me the whole time."

Travis closed his locker with a thud. He turned to face Sal fully, looking down at the shorter, blue-haired boy. His outfit was weird, he had on jeans and then a skirt over top and a tee-shirt of that band he and Larry are always talking about. Travis couldn’t remember the name, but he knew it was some satanic metal band. And with the mask, he looked even weirder to Travis.

His father would kill him if he knew Travis was considering this. Travis wasn't supposed to communicate with temptations. With faggots like Sal Fisher and his friends. Boys didn't wear skirts, they didn't have long hair and weird pig tails, they never wore dresses or painted their nails or wore skirts or wore bracelets with beads and strings like girls, or eyeliner smudged around their eyes like they wanted people to stare. They didn’t wear rings on every other finger, or stupid band shirts three sizes too big, or jackets covered in patches and pins.
They didn’t laugh with their whole chest, loud and careless, like they weren’t afraid of anyone hearing.

They didn’t walk down the hallway with their head up like nothing could touch them.
They didn’t look like… like that.

Sally Face did all of that. Like it was nothing. Like he didn’t even notice the stares, the whispers, the way people moved around him in the hall. Travis hated that. Hated how Sal could stand there, shoulders back, as if he wasn’t ashamed. As if he had nothing to be ashamed of. As if God wasn't disgusted with him.

It twisted something deep in Travis’s gut. Because he should’ve looked pathetic. Weak. But he didn’t.

Sal Fisher looked…

Travis swallowed hard, his fists clenching at his sides. He wanted to say something cutting, something that would knock Sal down a peg and remind him he wasn’t special, wasn’t better than anyone else, that he was sinful and disgusting and ungodly. But the words tangled in his throat, caught somewhere between the venom he wanted to spit and the strange, heavy ache he couldn’t name.

So instead, he scowled, crossing his arms like a shield. “Don’t you ever get tired of it?” Travis asked suddenly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. His voice came out low, rough. “Walking around like… like that.”

Sal tilted his head, pale eyes narrowing behind the mask, or well, only his left eye did. He didn’t answer right away, like he was studying Travis, measuring the weight of the question. Then, finally, he said softly, “Tired of what? Being myself?”

The answer landed like a punch Travis hadn’t braced for.

He blinked, jaw tightening. He wanted to scoff, to shove past him, to laugh in his face. But all he could do was stand there, heart hammering in his chest, as though Sal had pulled back the mask just enough to let Travis see something he wasn’t supposed to.

"Being yourself," Travis muttered back in a huff.

"You didn't sound like yourself the other night on the phone," Sal said suddenly.

"I told you I was fine," Travis snapped back.

Sal looked at him like he'd said something stupid. "Travis, you have bruises."

Travis said nothing.

For a long moment, they just stared at each other. The hallway buzzed with the muffled voices of the other students filling the cafeteria.

Then Sal sighed, adjusting the strap of his backpack. “Okay. I won’t push. But… if you ever want to talk, I’ll listen. No judgment.”

Travis wanted to laugh in his face, call him a liar, remind him that freaks like Sal had no right offering him, the son of the pastor, a man of god, anything. But the words refused to come. His chest hurt in a way that had nothing to do with bruises. Travis stared down at the floor to his right. He bit the inside of his lower lip as he thought, and he only stopped when the metallic taste of blood began to fill his mouth.

"I… supposed I would appreciate some help with the math stuff," Travis reluctantly admitted.

He told himself it was just so that his grades would improve, because that would further impress his father. Show him that Travis was learning, that he could do better, that he could be the man his father wanted.

Even though Travis couldn't see the smile on Sal's lips, he could hear it in his voice. "Awesome. How does an hour in the library after school sound?"

Travis just nodded, "Yeah, fine. Whatever."

They went their separate ways after that. Travis lingered by his locker for a little while so it wouldn't look like they were walking into the cafeteria together. The idea of being seen with Sal anywhere that was clearly his choice seemed terrifying. Travis told himself it was just until he could get his grades up. He needed to pass, and Sal was good at it. That was the beginning and end of it.

Still, as he started walking toward the cafeteria, he couldn’t shake the echo of Sal’s words. I won’t push. But if you ever want to talk, I’ll listen. No judgment.

No one had ever said that to him before. He hated how those words stuck, how they made the silence in his chest feel louder. He hated how much he wanted to believe them.

As he rounded the corner, he spotted Larry, Ash, and Todd already at their usual table, Sal slipping into the seat beside them like nothing had happened. Like their conversation hadn’t just cracked something open in Travis that he wasn’t sure he could close again.

Travis tore his gaze away, shoving past a group of people and dropping into a seat on the far side of the cafeteria. He kept his head low, fiddling with the edge of his tray.

He wasn’t friends with Sal Fisher. He didn't want to be friends with Sal Fisher. He wasn’t anything to him. After school, in the library, they’d do math problems, he’d get his grades up, and that would be it.

That was all it could be.