𝘐'𝘮 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘔𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘖𝘶𝘵 𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘠𝘰𝘶 - 𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘷𝘪𝘴

𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐞𝐲𝐞 - 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟗

tw: abuse, eating disorders, slurs, vomiting, self-harm, physical and mental abuse, homophobia

"I'm not letting you sleep on the floor you idiot." Travis replied, clearly annoyed that Sal would suggest such a thing. There was no way that Travis was letting Sal sleep on the floor at his own house.

   "Fine, then I guess we'll have to share the bed."

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"Wait... what?" Travis stared at Sal blankly. While he would have opted to sleep on the floor, and let Sal take the bed, Sal was suggesting an entirely different plan, that could very well end up with the two of them- well, Travis didn't want to get ahead of himself. He was confused and a bit flustered, but it was worth a shot. "Well, if you won't let me sleep on the floor, and you can't, because you're injured, then we have to share the bed tonight." Sal concluded the same again, leaving Travis, again, in shock. "Wh- Don't you- Don't you have like... a spare mattress? Or a blow-up mattress! Either work!" The blonde desperately tried to solve their problem using different solutions, but none prevailed. "The blow-up mattress popped when Larry dropped a blunt on it, and the spare mattress never came with the shipping company when we moved in." The bluette proceeded to list off all of the problems with Travis's solutions, leaving Travis helpless.

"So we literally have no other options?"

"I mean, unless you wanna stay in Larry's apartment-"

"No! No. This- This is fine." Travis said in a panicked voice. Anything but sleeping in Larry's apartment would probably be fine. Probably. "Okay, then sharing the bed it is!" Sal said in an overly-cheery voice. Travis stared blankly at the other boy once more. Was he really about to sleep in the same bed with another boy? "Uh.. Yeah. I guess."

As the two attempted sleep in the twin-sized mattress, they tried as hard as they could as to not make any direct physical contact. Whilst the two tossed and turned, at about 3:42 AM, they had found themselves facing each other, tangled up in the blanket, unable to move. Travis, at this point, was not conscious; the boy was dead asleep, clearly exhausted. Sal, on the other hand, was wide awake, contemplating his feelings about Travis, when he noticed the position the two were in, and seemingly, stuck in. "Wh- " Sal nearly spoke, but stopped himself in time, as to not wake up the other boy.

Sal, once again, trying to move away from the blonde, only ended up getting closer and closer every time he had tried to move away. The blanket, only tangling more and more, left the two trapped, nearly chest-to-chest. Eventually, Sal, unsure of himself, took off his prosthetic and headed to bed. After a while, the two boys subconsciously snuggled up to each other for bodily warmth, eventually ending up in a position where Sal's face was rested on Travis's chest, and the two were cuddling. At some point during the night, Gizmo found himself in the room, assuming a natural position in a crevice between Sal and Travis's torsos.

At about 7:27 AM, Saturday morning, Travis's eyes fluttered open with the gentle tuft of sunlight against his eyelashes. The blonde covered his eyes with his arm, groaning quietly at the lack of sleep he had been getting. Groggily rubbing his eyes, he looked down, and-

Sal was sleeping on his chest.

Travis's breath hitched; this was exactly what he had been afraid of. A "faggoty" position, that of which he would have to cleanse himself of later. And yet... he wasn't uncomfortable. It felt as though Sal's head was shaped perfectly, as to fit well into the crevice his chest created. As if their bodies were crafted by hand, specifically to touch each other. This feeling...

It was nice.

Travis shifted gently, trying to get up without waking the bluette up. Sal, being face-down on Travis, though, was easily woken. The blue boy made muffled noises into the bed, heading back to sleep within the next 20 seconds. Travis sighed heavily, getting up to go home. The boy put on his shoes, changed into his clean clothes, and left the house.

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Travis gently opened the front door of his home, desperately attempting to not wake his father. It was 8 AM at this point, so if his father wasn't sleeping, he was at the church, waiting for Travis to come home. Travis quietly rushed up to his room, gently closing the door and locking it. His room was "decorated" with a golden cross over his bed, white walls, and a shelf full of schoolbooks. His bible was sitting on his desk, which sat directly next to his white bed, with church clothes laying on it. The boy rummaged through his room for about 30 minutes, then going downstairs to get food before he left again. He knew he would be punished if his father found him home, after being gone for two days.

As Travis's foot hit the last step, the door burst open, revealing a red-faced, angry Kenneth. "Where the hell were you, boy?!" The blonde man screamed, causing the younger to flinch. "I was-" Travis was cut off before he could even speak. "No. No! Shut the fuck up, you little fucking faggot! Don't fucking pretend that I DON'T KNOW WHERE YOU WERE!" Kenneth screamed again, now throwing his glass of Jack Daniels that was on the table next to him, leaving marks of alcohol and scratches on the floor from the glass. "Clean it up." The man growled, in a low, raspy tone."

"Yes fath-"

"SHUT UP AND CLEAN!"

  Travis grabbed a washcloth from the cabinet next to him, kneeling down to wipe the mess, before he felt a swift kick send him landing face-first into the glass. The boy whimpered in pain, not daring to make any more noise. "KEEP FUCKING CLEANING!" Kenneth screamed again. It was a wonder nobody had called the police yet, although the fear from the man's booming voice may had been what was stopping his neighbors. Travis wiped blood, glass, and liquor off of his cheek, wincing when the open cuts and alcohol came in contact. He continued scrubbing as Kenneth kicked him more, any remaining air soon leaving his lungs. After Travis was finished scrubbing, he lay limp on the ground, clutching his ribcage.

  Kenneth, seeming satisfied, walked away muttering slurs and insults at his son. No wonder where Travis got it from. Although, Travis wasn't getting up this time. He lye and heaved on the ground, gentle sobs escaping his throat. Why did his father hate him so? Thoughts ran through his mind, as tears filled his eyes. He figured he should get the glass out of his cheek before going to Sal's again, but as soon as he stood up, his vision went spotty.

  The blonde gasped for air, not being able to breathe. Was he dying? What would he do if he didn't make it back home? The boy counted in his head, labelling the amount of time he could go without him feeling cracks in his chest. Travis grasped for his phone in his back pocket, still not being able to breathe. His hands shakily dialed 911, still fearing for his life. But, before he could get any words out,

His vision clouded.