Travis POV:
Travis entered his house, just to tell his father about the project. "Father?" He spoke hesitantly. "What do you need, boy?" His voice was rough, as always. Obviously hoarse from the amount of whiskey he had been downing earlier. You could smell it. Thick and heavy, and it'd burn your nose if you stayed around to long, but, Travis learned to not talk about it.
"I have to go to a classmates house for a project, it'll just be until 5, so I'll be home in time to cook dinner." He said, prepared to be told no.
"Alright, well, go on. I don't need you to fail any more classes. What have you, I don't care." Kenneth spoke, reclined in his chair flipping through a news paper, a pipe perched between his lips and a half empty bottle of whiskey on a coffee table next to him.
"Yes, sir." Travis held back a scream of excitement as he made his way back out the door, letting a smile cross his face as soon as the door shut. Should he message Sal and let him know he's coming over? He pulled his flip phone out, but a deep pit formed in his stomach. No. Not yet.
He felt his nose burn, the excitement fading. He didn't want to do this. He hated Sal, right? "I can't do this, but I need to. I want to, I think.." he bit his lip until blood drew, he sighed and put the phone back up, beginning to walk down the sidewalk.
He'd walk up the road by sals apartment and if he didn't want to go he'd just keep walking and say his father didn't let him go, or something. Yet again that very same pit formed, bubbling with shame. He'd feel guilty either way. He'd hate himself either way. Maybe, if he just indulged in what he wanted, he could make someone else happy.
He bit his lip again, picking at the dried skin perched upon his chapped lips. He promptly arrived at the apartment complex and opened the large door, seemingly towering over him. It was to late to turn back now, he supposed.
"404, right?" He mumbled to himself as he wondered anxiously, eventually finding the elevator and pressing its button. "No—402. Yeah, 402." He prayed he was correct as the doors open and he looked to his right, seeing the pale green door with its silver plating, reading, "402."
He walked up to the door and knocked, and not even seconds after that he saw the door swing open. "Hey, Travis. Come on in." Sal invited warmly, moving out of the way, Travis nodding and walking inside the home. It was much smaller than his house, obviously. It was unfamiliar, new. He liked it.
Sal began walking to his room, and Travis was quick to follow. He saw in the corner of his eye a man hunched over on the couch, the same electric blue hair as Sals. he had an empty beer bottle grasped in his limp hand, and his eyes looked puffy. Like he had been crying.
He decided to ignore him, and continued walking to Sal's room. It was very different from his room, so much more decor. "Wow." Travis accidentally slipped up and spoke. "Hm?" Sal hummed as he took out his notebook and flipped a few pages. "Your room—it's...violent? There's lots of posters, it's alarming." Travis said, looking around a bit astonished. Sal, on the other hand, raised an eyebrow. His room was quite bland, compared to Larry's, and just in general.
"Do you not have your room decorated? My room is bare minimum." Sal had a puzzled look on his face, even though it wasn't as visible, Travis could still tell. "Jesus Christ, no." He laughed, not realizing how odd that sounded. "To each their own, I guess." Sal shrugged.
"Also—I kinda got bored and finished the entire assignment, so—we can just hang out now, if you want to." Sal said, obviously trying to invite Travis to stay. He liked Travis' presence. It was nice, warm even. Travis radiated anxiety and anger like a mad man, but Sal still liked him being around nonetheless.
"Oh—okay. It is only 3:15, so—yeah, I could stay." Travis once again held back the urge to blow up at him. He really didn't want to be here and was fighting the urge to run out the door and never talk to Sal again, but, he stayed content and sat on Sal's bed.
Sal POV:
"Well, what are some of your interests? Yknow, other than being a holy Christian and whatnot." Sal laughed, but the words stung Travis a little bit, making him place a bothered look.
"Well, I like to write..sometimes." Travis said, embarrassed. He had never admitted to anyone of his faggot-like hobbies, especially writing. He was very passionate about it, hiding at least three book fulls of poetry around his room, bag, closet, anywhere he could hide them.
"That's sick, dude! What type of stuff do you write?" Sal replied, trying to show Travis that he truly did have an interest in his hobbies.
Travis stayed quiet, his face flushing a bright red. "It's embarrassing." Travis brushed a piece of hair out of his face, trying to not look like an absolute idiot. "I don't think so." Sal smiled underneath his prosthetic, sitting down next to Travis and placing his hand nearly close enough to touch, but not quite. Sal hadn't noticed, but Travis surely had.
"You're gonna laugh, I know it."
"No, seriously! I won't. I swear. Pinky promise even." Sal said, holding up his pinky. It was scared and pale, a hint of pink at the very edge of his finger. He had his nails painted white, most likely to cover up the fact he bit his nails constantly. "What? Are you a child?" Travis laughed, a smile showing his baby blue braces and small gap between his teeth. "If it means you'll tell me, then yes." Sal leaned closer, waving his pinky around like a flag.
"My Lord, Sal." How Travis said that—Sal would never be able to explain how—drove a mad blush to Sal's face. It was the way he said it, the way he used his name, somehow, made him unbelievably flustered. During that moment of the butterflies in Sal's stomach fluttering around like darts being thrown at balloons at a carnival, Sal felt Travis' pinky interlock with his.
Travis' hands were naturally rough, everyone knew that. Not that his hands were rough, but why they were rough. Travis nearly immediately retracted his hand after a almost-too-long-to-not-be-awkward silence. Sal had completely forgotten what he was even asking, and all he did was stare at Travis' face. Each detail. Each and every detail.
Travis' nose and how on the left side the bridge of his nose was curved inwards from a previous broken nose, how his bottom lip was slightly puffy, how he had ever so subtle eyebags that were only noticeable if you were close to him, and how Travis always seemed to have a blush across his cheekbones and nose.
"I write poetry."
"Hm?"
"I write poetry. You asked what I write, I write poetry." Travis said, grabbing the ends of his shorts and balling his fists, oh-so clearly ashamed. "That's beautiful, Travis." Sal said, completely enamored in Travis' character. He normally wouldn't act like this, be so completely obsessed with every element of someone—but with Travis he genuinely couldn't help it.
To have this connection with someone—even if it wasn't a strong one—that was so blocked off, sheltered by his own personality and mind, so complex, was something Sal was proud to have. Travis bit his lip, becoming increasingly overwhelmed by Sal. Maybe not in a bad way, but being so complimented and seeing someone so interested in his antics was too much for him. He needed a distraction, something to take the pressure off of him.
Travis POV:
"Do you play guitar?" Travis asked, hinting towards the bright red electric guitar that was leaned against the wall. "Eh, kinda. I just recently started playing so I'm not the best at it, but I can play a few chords. What about you? Do you play any instruments?" Sal asked, steering the conversation back towards Travis, which was the complete opposite of what Travis wanted.
"Uhm—I can play the piano. It's mainly just church songs, and wedding music, but I can play stuff other than that. If—my father isn't home I sneak into the church and play a few instrumentals of some songs I hear on the radio." Travis admitted, desperately not wanting to talk about himself but at the same time trying not to be rude to Sal.
He felt a lot better when he was in a closed space, not in public and pressured by the public to be the perfect priesthood representation. "I've noticed you haven't lashed out at me yet, Travis. I know that's random, but, it's nice to not hear you call me every insult in the dictionary."
"Well, you haven't pissed me off yet."
"You don't really mean what you say, do you?"
"I don't know."
"Why did you call me slurs?"
"Because I was mad."
"At me?"
"No."
"Then who?"
"I don't want to talk about this, Sal," Travis said, rubbing his shoulder, the fabric pinching between his fingers. "Okay, that's fine." Sal nodded and stood up, Travis noticeably disappointed. "You wanna play clumpy with me?" Sal was quick to change the subject, noticing Travis' uncomfortable tone. "That crappy console game?"
"Yep! They released a game card version for gearboy and I was one of the first to buy it." Sal said, grabbing his gear boy off the dresser and inserting the game card, sitting back down next to Travis. Though, this time, they were close.
And by close, it meant that their shoulders and knees were touching. To Sal it wasn't even noticeable but to Travis, he could feel Sal's red denim jeans pressed against him, the soft material of Sal's sweatshirt against his elbow and shoulders, and even while Sal was explaining the game to him all Travis could focus on was Sal.