Operation Sal | Sally Face x Travis Phelps

34

Sal is startled awake by a knock on the door. He'd been sleeping on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket, the television buzzing faintly and casting a blue glow on his unmasked face.

He glances at the clock, hung crookedly on the wall. It's around 2:15 in the morning. He sighs and drags a hand through his tangled hair. Who the hell would show up at this hour?

     Was Henry back from... wherever he'd gone off to? No, he has a key. Sal grimaces. Maybe his dad's intoxicated again, too drunk to remember that he can open the door himself.

   He struggles to get to his feet, pulling away from the warmth of his blanket, strapping his prosthetic on lazily, his hair sticking out every which way. One of his socks slides halfway down his ankle and he's too tired to yank it back up.

   Sal presses one hand against the door and pushes up onto the tips of his toes to look into the peephole, half expecting to see his father's red, heavy-eyed face staring back at him.

   Instead...

Sal's heart drops to his feet. Sudden surprise winds him and his lungs feel empty. He rushes to open the door, turning the lock and pulling at the knob frantically.

Sure enough, alone in the hallway, is Travis Phelps.

He looks like shit. He looks bad; really, really bad, sickly and pale and bruised with one cloudy eye, and drenched in rainwater like a soggy dog. Fatigue plagues his face. He's frail — frailer than he usually is. He seems to wobble where he stands, practically on the verge of toppling over like a domino.

"Travis," He says softly, taking in the sight of him.

Travis swallows, his gaze downcast for a moment before he takes an unguided step towards the room, his bag looking irritatingly placed over his shoulders, "H-Hey," he manages.

   He looks embarrassed. Maybe he's scared, for some reason that he'll be turned away, Sal momentarily thinks. Maybe he's ashamed to be standing here, soaking wet and lost.

"Your eye," Sal says softly, staring up at it with a grim expression hiding behind his prosthetic.

Travis visibly swallows. "I know." With a short breath through his nose, he shakes his head, "I think-" he hesitates, biting the inside of his mouth, "I think my father..." His brows twitch towards each other and he frowns, staring down at the carpet.

    Sal regains the ability to move just as quickly as he had lost it, and in mere moments, he's pulling Travis into him, embracing him so tightly that he can hardly feel anything. "It's okay," he whispers. His prosthetic is getting wet too now, but he can't find it within himself to care.

     "You're okay," Sal says quietly because, for a moment, it's all he knows how to say. He whispers it once more, holding him, clutching onto him for dear life. Tears well up in his eyes when Travis hugs him back. It's a weak hug, a tired, painful hug that cannot last long but is sincere in its efforts.

"What happened to you, Travis?" He whispers.

Travis's forlorn eyes flicker up from where they'd settled on the carpet, one a full moon and the other dark and thoughtful. His pale hands tremble against Sal's back. He opens his mouth but his tongue struggles on the words. Where to begin?

The blonde doesn't say anything, and instead, keeps his head hung, frowning heavily. He's still wearing his shoes, wet with rain and mud, and no doubt staining Sal's cream carpets. He shivers under the weight of his soaking clothes. Water drips off of him and onto the floor.

"I left," he mumbles very weakly, hands slipping down to rest at his sides. It's not the answer his boyfriend is looking for, but it'll have to do for now.