Travis Phelps is God's devotee. He will bleed out his sins through his wounds, suffer his punishments. He will repent until his knees bruise and his tongue is dry.
He will pray to god to cleanse him of his sins. Of himself.
And then he meets Sal Fi...
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𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐱 𝐩𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐬
♪♪♪
Sal is weirdly nervous, standing in front of the Phelps residence, fingers wrapped tightly around the strap of his book bag. While Travis had, reluctantly, offered to walk with Sal to his place immediately after school, Sal declined on the premise of a much-needed shower.
Besides, he hadn't informed his father and was worried Henry wouldn't receive his texts lest he was in another drunken daze. Much to Sal's displeasure, his father had been well into day drinking when he'd gotten back from school, the rancid smell of liquor permeating the apartment and wafting off of him as he gave Sal a hug for a goodbye.
Still, he's a man on a mission. And that mission is to find out about Travis Phelps' circumstances come hell or high water. He and Larry had, after an hour of delusional contemplation, written off Travis' interaction with his friend, Drew, chalking it up to an odd day. Besides, they were clearly close acquaintances, and Sal supposed it'd only be natural that Travis acts less abrasive when with someone he's close to.
He still remembers how comfortable Travis was wrapping his arms around Drew's waist and the same, uncomfortable churn in his stomach starts up again. Sal swallows the feeling away.
Surely there wasn't something specific about him that kept Travis at an arm's length? That his rejection or un-admittance to their friendship wasn't because it was Sal who was offering a hand, and not someone else? (Maybe someone with a normal face and a normal life and a normal dad. Normal, something Sal could never be. Sal, a fucked up kid loaded up on pills every morning to keep from fucking losing it every day.)
He steels himself, shaking off his thoughts, and pulls out his phone.
︿
Local Church Boy™
where do u live seen
I live on Prairie St. House 606. seen
The name Phelps will be written across our mailbox attached to the door of the house. seen
im outsyde delivered
﹀
Sal rubs the soles of his shoes against the doormat, waiting patiently.
It takes less than two minutes for the door to creak open, Sal being greeted by Travis' familiar resting bitch face.
"Type like a human, who the fuck writes outside like that?" Travis berates as he lets Sal in. "Also take off your shoes at the front door, don't trek in any mud."
