Losing My Religion || Sally Face; Travis Phelps x Reader

Chapter One: Bus Stop.

You met Travis Phelps at a bus stop in Mankato, Minnesota, ten minutes before a nasty rainstorm.

He hadn't introduced himself then. Neither had you, as strangers rarely introduce themselves when sitting on either side of a bus station bench. Silence had stretched in the space between, natural as anything. To you, at least.

It was the aggressive knee-bouncing that drew your full attention. He shook the metal bench with the force of it. You followed the line of that wiry leg up, and up, and up, and found a bedraggled man wired from head to toe.

The silence became less natural the longer your eyes were on him, so you finally opened your mouth.

"You alright?"

And the skies opened up.

Rain hit the asphalt in a cold, grey sheet, darkening the sidewalk and flattening the grass. It only took a second for the storm's roar to mute everything that sat below, including the cry of frustration your odd blond stranger had stood to release.

"I'm taking that as a no," you shouted.

"No fucking shit!" Man, he had a mouth on him. He was like a lamppost on his feet; tall and thin and topped with yellow. An awful bleach job, which he currently had both hands fisted in.

"You wanna talk about it?"

"With who, you?" His voice was shrill. His dismissive laugh even more so. This was a dude at the end of his rope.

"Well, yeah. I'm asking, aren't I?"

"I don't even know you!" He was sitting down, though, hands moving from his head to his sides, tucked underneath thickly-jacketed armpits.

"Better to let it all out to someone who you'll never see again than to someone in a position to worry."

You settled back against the bench, already in for the long haul. He seemed to notice, because he let out the heaviest, most dramatic, most put-upon sigh before launching headfirst into the most heartbreaking rant to ever disgrace your ears.

Travis - who ended up telling you his name in the middle of his lament - had been traveling for three days straight out of some buttfuck-middle-of-nowhere town in Pennsylvania. Three days with very little food, sleep, or (judging by how chapped his lips were) water. You'd think he would have packed better for such a trip, but it became apparent that he hadn't had time.

This was no pleasure cruise across the states. It was more of a getaway.

"Are you in danger?" You asked.

He responded with a snippy "no." Then, closely afterwards, "yes. I don't know. I don't know if he'd even come looking for me."

You thought for a moment that there would be more following that statement, but he kept his mouth shut. It just churned instead behind his swollen eyes.

"Do you need somewhere to stay?"

Another "no." Defensive. Reflexive. Everything about this guy was making your chest ache.

After a pause he seemed to swallow his pride, and mumbled a hesitant affirmative. A lot of change was tough to deal with for a small-town kid, you figured, and told him as much. He hissed bitterly, prominent nose wrinkling like you were talking down on him.

"I don't mean it as a jab," you said. "I just know the feeling." He stood with you when the bus pulled up. "New stuff sucks."

Inside the bus it was warmer. A bit more dry. You shook what water out of your hair you could before slouching into a worn upholstered seat, bag tucked underneath. Following a careful moment of deliberation, Travis sat next to you.