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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𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬
♱♱♱
Travis can't help being mesmerised by Sal.
'You're a freak for thinking that way, Travis.'
Travis has to keep himself from reaching for his cross. He doesn't want any blood on his palms, doesn't want to be tempted to smear it on Sal's walls and sheets and carpets and skin. He doesn't understand how, when Sal speaks of love, when Sal's friends smile and rebel and when the people around him do the very things he is beaten for, they are not true sinners in Travis' eyes.
It's only ever him.
It is only his blood.
(He's done it before. Bled from his palms and smeared across his old lover's walls and sheets and carpets and skin. It did nothing. The boy before him was still pure, still good, and Travis' blood looked so stark and glaringly there that he'd scrubbed it off until his fingernails started bleeding.
Still, what if? What if he drenched the people around him in his blood? Would he finally understand why it was only him who'd have to bear scars for actions they both commit? The love they share towards everyone and anyone?
They're both boys who can love boys. Why is it only so hard for him?)
Sal, sitting with his legs crossed on the floor, strums the guitar once after adjusting the tuning pegs before freezing. The difference in size between him and his guitar is a little comical.
He snaps his head up at Travis, who does his best to fight off the heat rushing to his cheeks.
He hates how quick to blush he is, and has never been more grateful for his darker skin tone.
"Seriously, don't laugh."
"I already promised, dickhead." Travis rolls his eyes, falling onto his back and hanging his head over the bed. Blood rushes to his head and he lets the dizzy feeling distract him from the beating of his heart. "Go on. I already told you acoustic music is my favourite, didn't I?"
Sal slackens, head lolling forward again, and very softly starts playing a tune. Travis' eyes slip shut as the volume picks up, and the sounds carry over to him. They're such gentle tunes, nothing that Travis, or anyone who knew of Sal Fisher, would ever associate with him. Travis feels the notes drape over him like a warm blanket, gliding across his skin like a cool breeze.
It's very peaceful.
Sal's confidence grows and as the notes get louder and louder, the strumming becomes more complicated. Travis admires the talent and practise he must've put it to be this good, to make Travis feel this...this calm.
