Wait A Minute

Chapter Two: Tearing Pages

Larry's fingers were tightened around the walkie talkie. The device had already powered off once Sal had hung up on his end, but the brunet was frozen to the spot. His eyes traveled around his room, landing on the damaged journal. He couldn't give it back to his friend right now, not when there was the possibility that Sal could have actually suffered from a nightmare. Larry couldn't add on to the other's possible stress.

The chime of the elevator reaching the basement broke Larry out of his thoughts. With adrenaline coursing through his veins, he turned back around and whipped the walkie talkie back to its stand. He scooped up the diary and ripped out the paint-stained page before chucking the book under his desk. The page crinkled in his hand as Larry tightened his grip, trying to figure out how to hide it. The tell-tale sound of his doorknob turning open encouraged the male to stuff it in his boxers for the time being.

"Sally!" Larry spun around on his heel to over enthusiastically greet his friend as the door was swung open. He saw the male lower his head slightly before looking back up at his forced smile, obviously confused as to why Larry looked a wreck. He was sure that if he could see beneath the prosthetic that Sal would have his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"What's going on?" Sal's voice came out fine, uncharacteristic for how it normally sounded after the boy had suffered from night terrors. Larry crossed his arms over his chest, mentally reprimanding himself for now over analyzing his friend.

"Nothing, what do you mean dude?" At the end of his rebuffment, a plop of paint fell from his boxers and onto his foot with an audible splat. Both boys looked down at it in an awkward silence. "Actually," Larry started, running a hand through his beyond tangled hair, "It's been an interesting night."

Sal finally closed the door behind him and walked into the room. Larry heard him sniffle from behind the mask and had to refrain from laughing. Sal absolutely hated the smell of oil paints. "Sorry, should've warned you that I had been painting," he joked. He ran his hand through his hair once more before resting it on the back of his neck.

His eyes were glued to Sal's back as the other walked to the front of his desk and stopped. With bated breath, he prepared for his friend to see the book and yell at him. However, all Sal did was turn his gaze to the blank canvas before turning his head to Larry. A strap of the black tank that the blue-haired male had been wearing fell off his shoulder at the movement, showcasing a jagged scar that ran from his shoulder to the base of his throat. Larry had become familiar with the light scars that littered Sal's upper arms and chest, growing in severity as they traveled up his throat and under his chin. However, the other still refused to let Larry see what lay beneath his mask.

"Painting everything except your canvas I see," Sal remarked as he tucked his hands into the pockets of his pyjama pants. Larry let out a wry laugh.

"Like I said, it's been an interesting night," he explained. An awkward silence ensued, something that had never happened during their friendship. Larry's mind scrambled for something to say as he listened to the floorboards creak from Sal shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Bedsheets," he unceremoniously spat out, "I mean, I'll get some new bedsheets."

Sal simply nodded as he watched Larry bundle up the stained sheets in his arms before traversing to the closet and throwing them on the ground there. Despite his staggering height, Larry had to stand on his toes to reach the sheets on the top shelf. He heard Sal chuckle as his fingers clawed at the shelf, struggling to get a grip on the sheets and pull them down.

"Like you could do any better," Larry grunted as he finally got the sheets to fall down and into his waiting ams. Sal snorted at that.

"I feel like I've been able to do most things better than you," Sal challenged. Larry could practically imagine the other's lips twisting into a shit eating smirk. He shook his head as he walked back over to the bed, a smile tugging at his own lips.