God Has Forsaken Me (Larvis)

by The_Tree_Fell_But_No_One_Heard_The_Sound

Summary:

What do you do when everything feels bleak?
When violence is the only language you've ever been taught, and denial is the only way you know how to survive?

Maybe you've lived that reality. Maybe you haven’t.
Maybe you don’t have an answer.

But Travis does.
Even if he hasn’t figured it out yet.

This is a story about Travis and Larry, caught in the grim, twisted world of Nockfell—a place where the truth is ugly, bloody, and unforgiving.

But even in the darkest places, connection can grow.
Sometimes, friendship takes root where you'd least expect it.
And sometimes... that friendship becomes something more.
Something fragile.
Something beautiful.
Even when the world around you is falling apart.

Chapter 1

 

Tragedy wasn’t just something Travis had known—it was all he had ever been taught to expect. From the nights when his father's rage turned cruel, to the days spent drowning in a grief he couldn't name, his own mind had become a battlefield.

 

He sat cross-legged on the old creaky bed in his attic room, the silence his only friend. The walls were covered in wooden crosses, each one a silent witness. Iron bars sealed the window shut, not to keep anything out—but to keep him in. Even here, in the one place meant to be his, Travis felt like he was suffocating.

 

He rubbed his bruised eye and winced, the dull ache flaring under his fingers. At least the swelling had gone down. It was always the same: just when one bruise faded, his father would deliver the next like some twisted ritual. It was a cycle of pain disguised as discipline.

 

From the drawer beside his bed, Travis pulled out a worn notebook, its cover frayed and edges curled. Inside were pages upon pages of unsent letters. Some were desperate confessions of love, others anguished apologies to a God he wasn’t sure listened anymore.

 

Because how could he love another boy? He couldn’t—not if he wanted to stay pure, holy, righteous. Not if he believed what his father had beaten into him since he was old enough to kneel and pray.

 

His father was the potter, and Travis the clay. But even the best clay can crack in the kiln—or worse, shatter.

 

He clicked his pen and turned to a blank page. Another letter. Just to fill the silence. Or maybe for a reason he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud.

 

That he was lonely. Bone-deep, sick-to-his-stomach lonely.

 

 

_____

 

School began like it always did—hazy, colorless, and nebulous. The kind of morning that felt more like a punishment than a routine. Travis tugged at the hem of his violet sweater, brushing off a stubborn piece of lint. His tanned knuckles went pale as his hands tightened reflexively around the straps of his backpack.

 

Each step echoed down the hallway, his sneakers squeaking against the linoleum like a warning bell no one cared to hear. Travis wasn’t exactly known for being easy to talk to. He barked insults like reflexes, spit venom at whoever wandered too close.

 

Because picking a target was simple. It gave him control. It gave him power. And for a boy like him, clinging to any kind of control was easier than confronting what really boiled underneath. It was pathetic, really—but teenage years are cruel, and doubly so for boys like Travis.

 

His gaze snagged on the new kid of Nockfell—Sal Fisher. Those bright blue pigtails? They made Travis’s blood itch. And that prosthetic face? Revolting.

 

Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

 

What really twisted his stomach wasn’t Sal’s face—it was the people around him. Larry stood close, laughing like he belonged beside Sal. Ashley and Todd lingered nearby, chiming in with smiles that came too easy.

 

Jealousy sparked in his gut, sharp and bitter. It burned like a cigarette pressed to skin—slow, intentional, impossible to ignore. Friends weren’t something Travis could afford, not in the world he’d grown up in. He told himself he didn’t need them. But watching Sal… already surrounded, already wanted—that stung.

 

All Travis had was Phillip. And sure, that was something. It was more than nothing. But sometimes… sometimes it wasn’t enough.

 

Sometimes he needed more. More love. More attention. And that hollow ache? That need he couldn’t name?

 

It made him mean. It made him cruel. 

 

So, he marched forward—face curled into a practiced sneer, like muscle memory. His arms folded across his chest, one blonde brow cocked with smug defiance. Trouble flickered behind hazel eyes, barely contained.

 

“Well, well. If it isn’t the queer squad,” Travis spat, eyes landing squarely on Todd. He wasn’t certain about the others, but Todd? Todd was soft. Quiet. Easy to mark. That was enough.

 

Sal turned, the faintest glint of annoyance shining through the single visible eye behind his prosthetic. Larry stepped in front of him instinctively, arms crossed like a barricade.

 

“Get the hell outta here, Travis,” Larry snapped, voice sharp as barbed wire.

 

But backing down? That wasn’t something Travis allowed himself to do. Weakness was blood in the water.

 

He squared his shoulders, jaw clenched. “I go where I want, mutt,” he huffed.

 

Then his eyes slid back to Sal. He reached out and tapped the edge of the prosthetic with two fingers, a cruel smirk tugging at his mouth.

 

“What kind of freak wears a goddamn mask to school?” he jeered.

 

Ashley’s voice cut in, firm and rising. “Leave him alone.”

 

Her glare was sharp, protective—but Travis barely flinched. Todd looked between them all, shifting awkwardly, clearly searching for some way to calm things down that didn’t exist.

 

Travis barked a bitter laugh, eyes snapping back to Ashley. “What are you, his girlfriend?” He scoffed before she could answer. “Psh, as if. A little freak like you couldn’t bag shit.”

 

Then, with a venomous grin, he twisted the knife one last time.

 

“Ain’t that right, Sally Face?”

 

Before Larry could unleash the punch clearly building in his clenched fist, the bell rang—shrill and perfectly timed. All of them were now officially late.

 

Larry’s glare could’ve burned a hole through Travis. “Saved by the bell,” he muttered bitterly.

 

He turned to his friends with a sharp jerk of his head. “C’mon. We’ve got class.” Then, one last glance at Travis. “This isn’t over.”

 

The group stalked past him, their footsteps echoing like accusations down the nearly empty hallway. Every pair of eyes threw daggers. Then they were gone. And Travis was alone again.

 

Resentment churned low in his gut, bitter and hot—but he forced it down. He wasn’t about to get detention over some boy with a fake face, no matter how much he wanted to swing back.

 

Or so he told himself.

 

He slipped into his classroom a few minutes late, the door shutting behind him with a solid, echoing click. The sound felt like a verdict. He took a seat diagonal from Sal, his gaze heavy, lingering.

 

Travis leered at him through the whole class.

 

He had no idea just how much trouble he’d set in motion.

Chapter 2: The Walk

Larry walked home from school with Sal at his side, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans. His jaw was tight, his shoulders tense. That whole interaction with Travis earlier—it still clung to him like smoke. The way Travis had sneered at Sal, mocked him, touched his prosthetic like he had the right...

It made Larry’s blood boil just thinking about it.

His spiraling thoughts were cut short when Sal nudged his arm with an elbow. “Larry? You good, dude?”

Larry blinked, dragged back into the present. He gave Sal a faint smile—more a twitch at the corner of his mouth than anything real. “Yeah, Sal. I’m alright. Just thinkin’, that’s all.”

Sal looked at him through the eye holes of his false face, gaze unreadable—but something in the furrow of his visible brow, the way his head tilted just slightly, said he wasn’t buying it.

“You don’t believe me, huh?”

Sal gave a small shrug and flicked a piece of lint off his black sleeve. “I mean, you’ve been zoning out for like five minutes. You’ve got that face—y’know, the one that says something’s chewing on your nerves.”

He paused for a moment to adjust his pigtails, the straps of his bag bouncing lightly with each step they took down the sidewalk.

“Is it about Travis?” he asked, voice quieter now.

Larry stopped in his tracks at the question, raking a hand through his long, dark hair. He started walking again, but his pace had slowed, as if the conversation was dragging at his heels.

“I just—I didn’t like the way he talked to you, Sal. And at lunch? He was practically foaming at the mouth, staring you down like you’d done something personal. He’s a fuckin’ dick.”

Sal nodded slowly, letting the words settle before he spoke. He always did that—measured, intentional. Like every word mattered.

“You ever notice how he’s always got some kind of bruise?” he asked, shifting the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

Larry glanced at him from the corner of his eye, then looked down, his gaze following the scatter of gravel as it crunched beneath his sneakers.

“I mean, yeah? So?”

Sal tilted his head slightly, his voice still even. “I’m not saying what he does is okay. It’s not—we all know that. But... haven’t you ever wondered why he’s like that?”

Larry snorted, rolling his eyes in reflex, but the question struck something inside him—low, reluctant, uncomfortable.

“Does it really matter? He’s just some stuck-up, holier-than-thou freak who thinks he can act however he wants because he’ll ‘repent’ later and be fine with God.”

Sal bumped his elbow gently into Larry’s arm again, brows knitting under the eye holes of his prosthetic. His voice was quiet—more thoughtful than confrontational.

“It does matter, though. Think about it, Larry. What kind of home life do you think he has? I asked around a little. His dad—Kenneth, I think?—he’s known to be kind of a hard-ass. Maybe more than that. What if he does hit him? What if Travis lashes out because that’s all he knows? People don’t just... turn out that way for no reason.”

The question silenced Larry, his chest tightening with something sharp and unwelcome. He stared down at his shoes, rounding the corner toward the Addison Apartments with Sal beside him. Neither of them spoke as they walked up to the front door.

He pushed it open and stepped inside, heading straight for the elevator. Sal followed without a word. Larry hit the button for the basement floor—the one that led home.

Still, he didn’t answer.

Not until Sal spoke again, gently—but not backing down.

“Larry… maybe he just needs a friend.”

Larry let out a sharp breath, somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. His jaw tightened, then loosened again. “He’s got Philip,” he muttered. “You know, the guy that eats lunch with him? That counts. So yeah, he’s not alone.”

Sal sighed, the sound muffled through the prosthetic. “I’m serious, man. What he’s doing isn’t okay, I’m not saying that. But people don’t just act like that for no reason. Hurt people hurt others. You know that.”

Larry leaned back against the elevator wall as it hummed downward. He crossed his arms tight over his chest, fingers tapping restlessly against his forearms.

“But does he even deserve friends?” he snapped. “Look at how he acts.”

The words felt weak as soon as he said them.

Sal didn’t answer right away, just looked at him through the empty eye gaps of the prosthetic. Larry could feel that gaze on him—steady, calm, and somehow right. Like he was the one being unreasonable now.

He just wanted to protect Sal. That wasn’t wrong, was it? So why did it feel like he was being lectured?

“It’s not about what he deserves,” Sal said, voice quiet but certain. “It’s about what he needs. Maybe Travis just... needs a push in the right direction.”

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open with a soft chime. Larry let out a long, reluctant sigh and stepped out, unlocking his apartment door with a flick of his key. Sal followed him inside.

Larry kicked off his shoes and shot a look at him. “And what, you expect me to befriend the little shit?”

Sal opened the door to Larry’s room, slipping inside and shrugging off his bag. He didn’t look back.

“Would you rather I do it?”

Larry shot Sal a scandalized look, as if the question alone was ridiculous. He muttered something under his breath and stalked over to his stereo, fumbling with a Sanity's Fall CD. He popped it in, fidgeting with the empty case in his hands.

“Hell no,” he grumbled. “Like I’m gonna sit back while you end up with a black eye ‘cause that guy loses his shit.”

Sal dropped to the floor with a soft thump, settling into a criss-cross position against the wall. The music kicked in—raw, loud, and angry. Larry sat down next to him, propping his chin in his hand, his long hair falling forward like a curtain.

“You’re serious about this?” he asked, quieter now. Not angry—just tired.

Sal nodded, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. Dead serious.”

Larry groaned and dragged a hand down his face, fingers tugging slightly at his skin. He didn’t want to do this. Every bone in his body told him it was a bad idea. But letting Sal do it alone? That was worse.

So he weighed his options. Let Sal walk into some mess with Travis... or get there first. Take the heat himself. Shield his friend the only way he knew how.

“I’ll talk to him,” he muttered. “I don’t want you dealing with that jackass. If anyone’s gonna end up in a fight with him, it’s gonna be me.”

Sal gave him a small, satisfied nod and patted his shoulder lightly—a quiet thank you in motion.

“Thanks, Larry. For listening.”

Larry scowled down at his socked feet like they’d personally betrayed him. He already regretted everything. He hated that he’d agreed to this. Hated that Sal had talked him into it.

But if Sal thought it was worth trying… then maybe it was.

“Yeah, well... if this all blows up, I’m blaming you.”

The conversation slipped away after that, replaced by the sound of harsh guitars and thundering drums. The stereo drowned out the silence between them, filling the room with something loud enough to quiet their thoughts.

Tomorrow was coming. And Larry?

He dreaded every second of it.

Chapter 3: The Bathroom

The following morning unfolded like every other for Travis. Wake up. Pray with his father. Shovel down breakfast. Get ready. Rinse and repeat. It was routine. Familiar. Numb.

Fresh bruises bloomed across his ribs, aching from the night before. Kenneth had been in one of those moods again—probably decided Travis hadn’t praised God “enough” during Wednesday service.

Who even knew anymore? It all blended together.

Travis tugged his purple sweater over his torso, wincing slightly as the fabric brushed against tender skin. He adjusted the hem of his shorts, then sat heavily on the edge of his creaky bed. From the drawer of his nightstand, he pulled out his notebook—faded, worn, and deeply personal. It was ritual now. A twisted kind of comfort, even if it left him gutted afterward.

Each page was a mess of unsent letters—half love confessions, half desperate apologies to a God who never answered. Pleas to erase the parts of himself he couldn’t scrub clean. The parts he was taught to fear.

He flipped to a blank page and raised his pen, writing with a hand that trembled ever so slightly:

---

 

I’m sorry, Larry.

I’m sorry I don’t know how to stop being violent. I know I’m no good. I know I’m a sinner.

I’m sorry I can’t stop wishing I could hand you my heart and ask you to keep it.

I know it’s wrong to feel this way. I know it’s wrong to look at your lips when you’re not looking.

You’re so beautiful, and I hate it. I hate your stupid eyes. I hate the smell of cigarettes that clings to your clothes. I hate your long hair, your dumb smile, the way other people make you laugh.

I wish I could be as free as you.

I wish God would take this all away from me.

I pray. I beg. I kneel at the altar every Sunday and every Wednesday, and I plead for God to fix me.

I’m scared of Hell... but sometimes I wonder if I’m already there.

 

---

 

His pen froze mid-sentence as his father’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and angry from downstairs.

“Travis! Hurry up! You’ll miss the bus!”

Travis flinched, snapping the notebook shut with a shaking hand. He could hear the slow, deliberate sound of Kenneth’s footsteps climbing the stairs—each one heavier than the last.

He stuffed the notebook and pen into his school bag with trembling fingers, then rushed to smooth down his bedhead and sling his bag over his shoulder. He dropped to one knee to tie his laces—just in time.

The door creaked open.

Kenneth stood in the doorway, looking down at him with those cold, unforgiving eyes. “Good. You’re almost ready. Get downstairs immediately. I will be very displeased if you miss your ride.”

Travis nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”

Only after the footsteps began descending did Travis let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The door remained wide open—just another silent reminder of how little privacy he was allowed.

He finished tying his shoes and stood, bracing himself with one deep, steadying breath.

 

Today was going to be a long day.

--

 

The day was supposed to go like every other: snap at everyone, intimidate, keep his guard up. Be cold. Be cruel. Be untouchable.

And for the morning, he was.

Not like he knew how to be anything else.

When noon rolled around, Travis dropped into his usual lunch table across from Philip, his tray clattering louder than necessary. He took an angry bite of his sandwich, chewing like it owed him money, eyes narrowing as he watched Sal walk by with his people.

That little gay squad. Or whatever. Travis didn’t even know if they were all actually gay. He just knew he was probably projecting. But none of it mattered. What mattered was that Sal had everything Travis couldn’t have. And it burned.

Larry beside him. A tight-knit group of friends. People who smiled when they saw him coming.

Travis’s appetite vanished like a switch had flipped. With a grunt, he shoved his tray away, the motion abrupt and bitter. Philip raised a brow, clearly about to ask something.

“Shut up,” Travis muttered, even though Philip hadn’t said a word.

He stood abruptly, slinging his bag over one shoulder, and stalked off toward the hallway.

He didn’t know that Larry was already getting up to follow. Didn’t know Sal had nudged him with a quiet look and a plan.

The hallway was mostly empty. Travis’s shoes squeaked across the linoleum in time with the low hum of the fluorescent lights. The headache brewing behind his eyes sharpened. His grip on his backpack straps tightened until his knuckles turned white.

And then—

 

“Travis! Wait up.”

The voice echoed down the hallway, low but unmistakable.

Travis came to a sharp halt, spine straightening like a startled animal.

Larry was trailing behind him. 

Travis whipped around, his usual sneer plastered across his bruised face. He curled his lip, feigning confidence. But his pulse thundered in his ears, and his heart fluttered like a bird slamming into the bars of its cage.

 

Why him?

Why did it have to be Larry?

Why couldn’t everyone just leave him the hell alone?

 

“What the fuck do you want?” he spat. “Is this about yesterday? You still all pissy ‘cause I got in your little friend’s fake face? Kick rocks, bitch.”

Larry’s jaw clenched visibly. It looked like he was chewing on a comeback—or maybe holding back a punch.

“Yeah, I’m still mad,” Larry bit out, voice tight. “But that’s not—tch. That’s not why I’m here.”

Travis glared like he wanted to set him on fire with sheer spite alone. But his eyes... his eyes were scanning Larry’s face. Memorizing it. Those little features he usually only let himself admire when the long-haired boy wasn’t looking.

 

He hated how much he wanted him.

Begged God to take the thoughts away.

He shouldn’t feel like this. Couldn’t.

 

But still, his chest ached with something awful—something soft and pleading.

“I don’t give a shit why you’re here,” he snapped. “I don’t wanna talk to you.”

He turned on his heel and marched away, faster now, making a beeline for the boys' bathroom like it was a bomb shelter.

“Travis!” Larry shouted, picking up pace behind him. “I just wanna fuckin’ talk! Slow down!”

Travis spun around so fast it made his head rush. His eyes were wild—not just with rage, but with panic. He didn’t want to be alone with Larry. Couldn’t. Not right now.

Not when his heart beat like it wanted to claw out of his chest.

“I said get lost! So fuck off, greaseball! Get the fuck away from me!” he yelled. The words echoed like gunshots down the empty hall, bouncing off the lockers, too loud, too much.

Larry stared at him, unmoving. Judging. Maybe deciding.

After a long moment of silence, he rolled his eyes and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Fine. Go throw your tantrum. See if I fuckin’ care.”

With that, Larry turned and walked away, heading back toward the cafeteria. The door swung closed behind him with a dull thud.

Travis stood there, frozen, chest heaving. His fingers were trembling from panic, the only thing keeping it hidden was the death grip he had on his backpack straps.

Once the cafeteria doors stopped swinging, Travis backed away.

 

Then bolted.

 

He shoved into the empty boys’ bathroom, shouldering a stall open with a loud bang. His bag hit the floor hard, and he dropped to his knees, yanking it open like it was on fire.

The notebook came out fast. He flipped to that page—the one from this morning. That awful, soft confession his hands had written.

Hot tears blurred his vision as panic spiraled through his chest. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing—just that he felt cornered, exposed, like every inch of him was on display.

With a grunt, he tore the page free. Shoved the notebook back into his bag like it might bite him. He slapped the paper into the sink and turned the water on full blast.

The ink bled instantly, the words unraveling into nothing.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he hissed under his breath. He grabbed the dripping paper and shoved it under the hand dryer, jamming the button with frantic, wet fingers.

The dryer roared. The page flapped uselessly.

After a few seconds, he gave up.

The paper still soggy, he crumpled it into a ball and tossed it in the general direction of the trash can. It bounced off the rim and hit the floor.

He didn’t even look.

He just stumbled into the stall and locked it behind him.

Then sat. Not to use it—just to hide.

He pulled his feet up onto the seat and curled into himself, arms wrapping tight around his knees.

A choked sob broke from his throat. He buried his face against his knees, hot tears spilling freely now.

His blonde hair clung to his forehead. Sweat and panic clung to his skin like a second shirt.

 

He hated this.

Hated himself.

And all he could do now was cry and hope no one came in.

 

And just Travis’s luck—someone did come in.

 

The bathroom door creaked open. Soft footsteps entered, hesitant, careful. Not rushed, not loud. Someone who didn’t want to spook whoever was inside.

Travis held his breath, trying to stifle the last of a sniffle. It didn’t work.

Through the thin gap at the bottom of the stall, he saw a pale hand reach down and pick up the crumpled, water-stained page off the tile. The hand lingered. Turned the paper over once. Then, slowly, dropped it into the trash.

“Travis?”

Sal’s voice. Soft. Careful.

Travis exhaled shakily—not with relief. More like exhausted resignation.

“It’s occupied, Sally Face. Get lost,” he snapped, still curled into himself. His head finally lifted, watching Sal’s sneakers step past the urinal. The blue-haired boy stood still, back to the stall.

“You okay?” Sal asked gently. “You sound like you’re crying.”

“It’s none of your fucking business,” Travis barked, wiping his face hard with the back of his hand, his cheeks hot. His knees stayed locked tight to his chest.

Sal let out a soft breath. He didn’t answer right away. Always thinking. Always calculating.

He knew one wrong word could send Travis spiraling further.

“I know what it’s like to be alone,” Sal said quietly, voice muffled behind the prosthetic. He leaned his back gently against the stall door. “And I know you must feel lonely.”

The words hit like a gut punch.

Travis flinched, a hiccup slipping out against his will. He growled at the sound, as if sheer anger could shove the vulnerability back down.

“As if you know what that’s like,” he snapped. “You’ve got your little queer squad.”

Sal let out something close to a chuckle. Not mocking. Just dry.

“You do realize not all of us are gay, right? I mean—well, I know Todd is. Super gay. We all love him though. But the rest?” A shrug. “I actually have no idea. Statistically, we can’t all be. That’d be a wild coincidence.”

Despite himself, Travis rolled his eyes. His breath hitched in something between frustration and amusement.

“As if that matters,” he muttered. “You homos flock together like a damn gaggle of geese.”

Sal sighed, shifting on his feet. Travis watched the movement from the gap beneath the stall.

“That’s not the point,” Sal said, more softly now. “Look, Travis… I don’t know what you’re going through. I won’t pretend I do. I don’t know what your life looks like when no one’s watching. But I’m not here to judge you. I’m not here to fight you.”

He paused, carefully choosing the next words.

“If you ever need someone to listen—to actually hear you—I’m here. I don’t hate you, Travis.”

Another beat.

“If you ever need a friend… I’m here.”

Travis’s breath hitched before he could stop it. He swallowed hard, choking down the sob clawing its way up his throat. His teeth clenched, jaw tight, fingers curling against his knees.

“I don’t need your pity!” he snapped.

But it was too late.

Sal had slipped through the cracks—put a fracture in the armor Travis had spent years welding shut. And Travis hated it. Hated that Sal had gotten through, even a little.

Outside the stall, Sal took a small step back. He didn’t say anything at first—just stood there, facing the door like he was still trying to see the boy behind it.

 

Then, softly:

“Well… the offer still stands. I’ll keep an eye out for you, alright? Just know I’m never gonna push you away if you need somebody.”

Travis stayed silent, watching the movements of Sal’s shoes through the stall gap. The squeak of rubber soles against the bathroom tile was the only sound as Sal turned to leave.

He paused at the door, just for a moment. Travis heard a quiet sigh—tired, or maybe disappointed—before the door swung open and clicked softly shut behind him.

 

And then…

 

Silence.

 

Travis exhaled, his lungs finally taking in a full breath. It felt hollow in his chest.

He ran a hand through his messy blonde hair, fingers tugging at the dark brown roots. His father always made him dye it. Said it made him look more like him. Like his mother had never existed.

Sometimes, Travis wished he had known her. Maybe she would’ve known what to say. Maybe she would’ve understood this ache in his chest. Maybe she could’ve helped him sort through the mess of feelings he didn’t have a name for.

Or maybe… she would’ve been just like his father.

 

There was no way to know.

 

Travis let his head fall forward again, resting his cheek against his knees. The tears had stopped, but the ache remained.

He wasn’t ready to leave this stall. Not yet.

He’d stay until the bell rang. Until the halls were full of footsteps and noise again.

 

Right now, he just needed to be alone.

Chapter 4: Puff, Puff, Pass

The evening at Larry’s place was quiet and comfortable, for the most part.

Sal was chilling in Larry’s room, Ashley tagging along like she often did. She’d gifted Larry a beanbag chair earlier that day, and now she was comfortably sunk into it, cross-legged in front of his bed. Sal and Larry were both sprawled across the mattress, a blunt lazily hanging from Larry’s lips.

He choked on a hit the second Sal’s words fully registered.

Larry passed the blunt to his blue-haired friend, who tilted his prosthetic slightly to take it between his lips.

“Wait—you’re telling me you and Travis had a heart-to-heart in the bathroom?” Larry choked, his eyebrows damn near disappearing into his ruffled hair.

Sal exhaled a slow stream of smoke from behind his prosthetic, then passed the blunt to Ashley, who raised a skeptical brow.

“Well… yeah,” Sal said, casual as ever. “You told me he looked like he was gonna snap. So I just guessed where he might’ve gone. Wasn’t like he had a ton of places to hide.”

Ashley sat up a little straighter, her green eyes wide. She pointed the blunt at both boys like it was a smoking gun.

“Hold on just a second. You both talked to Travis? And you—” she jabbed the end toward Sal— “had a deep, emotional conversation with him in the bathroom? And you weren’t even gonna tell me?!”

She took a long drag, her expression laced with disbelief and suspicion.

Larry shot a side-eye at Sal and nudged his thigh with a socked foot. “Don’t look at me, man. This was all his doing. I was just following orders.”

Ashley pinched the bridge of her nose, brown hair falling around her face in messy strands. The blunt dangled loosely between her fingers.

She took another drag, holding the smoke in her lungs for a moment too long—like she needed the burn to numb the headache these two constantly gave her.

She exhaled slowly, the smoke curling up into the dim light.

“So,” she said flatly, “would anyone like to explain this to me? I think I’m owed an explanation.”

Sal opened his mouth, but Larry beat him to it—grinning like a shithead, his eyes red-rimmed from the high.

“Sal here thinks holier-than-thou Travis actually has a heart in his chest. Used some real ‘empathy and reason’ cult-leader tactics to get me on board. What a manipulator, right?”

Sal snorted behind his prosthetic, rolling his eyes with reluctant amusement as Larry took another hit.

“Oh, how cruel,” Sal deadpanned. “Your words wound me, Larry. Truly.”

Larry laughed mid-exhale, coughing a little through it. His crooked grin showed off the familiar gap between his front teeth. He passed the blunt back to Sal with the coordination of someone who definitely shouldn't be driving.

“But seriously,” Larry said, turning to Ashley, “he thinks that little shitstain’s got some real deep-seated issues. Like, family stuff. You know anything about his dad?”

Ashley frowned in thought. “His dad’s a pastor. Kenneth Phelps? I’ve heard he’s… intense. Not exactly the warm-and-fuzzy type.”

Sal nodded as he exhaled, then leaned forward to hand her the blunt again. She took it with a skeptical look.

“Exactly,” he said. “That’s what I heard too. That’s why I wanted to try and reach Travis. And… I think I might’ve made a breakthrough.”

Larry and Ashley both turned their full attention on Sal now, their curiosity plain as day. Larry took the blunt when it was passed back to him and gently tapped it out in the ashtray, saving the rest for later.

“Go on,” Ashley murmured, her focus sharp despite the hazy glaze in her eyes. Larry nodded, trying to keep his buzz from dulling his concentration.

“He was crying,” Sal said. “Locked in a bathroom stall when I found him. There was this crumpled piece of paper on the floor—looked like notebook paper. It was wet, the ink all smeared and bleeding. I think he meant to throw it away but missed.”

He paused, absently adjusting one of his pigtails as he let the weight of his words settle.

“He was snappy and defensive like usual, but something about it felt... different this time. I told him that if he ever needed someone to actually listen, I’d be there. He said that he didn’t want my pity, but I could hear his breathing change. I think it shook him.”

Larry dragged a hand down his face, torn somewhere between grudging respect and annoyance. “That little shit ran from me when I tried to talk to him. But at least you didn’t get decked.”

Ashley crossed her arms and tilted her head, thoughtful. “Still… that’s something. It’s small, yeah, but it’s not nothing. Like you found a crack in the wall.”

Larry nodded slowly. “I just don’t get why he ran from me, though. Wasn’t like I was about to fight him or anything.”

Sal turned toward him, adjusting the strap of his prosthetic face. “I don’t know. Maybe… something about you triggered him.”

Larry furrowed his brows, biting the inside of his cheek. “What, like my face? My vibe? What does that even mean?”

Ashley’s eyes flicked to Sal, something passing silently between them. A look. An idea. But she didn’t say it out loud.

Larry squinted. “Okay, what the hell was that? You two just gave each other a whole telepathic conversation and left me out of it.”

 

Sal hesitated. Ashley did too.

 

“It’s just a theory,” she said cautiously. “And it’s not ready to be shared yet. I wouldn’t even ask Travis without risking a black eye.”

Larry groaned. “Do I even want to know?”

Ashley grimaced, shaking her head. “Probably not. Not until we’re sure. I don’t want to throw out some half-baked guess and look like an asshole.”

Larry sighed and snatched the blunt again, lighting it back up. “Okay, okay. No more talking. I wanna get high until my brain melts.”

The room slipped back into laughter and nonsense chatter, the heavy moment slowly dissolving into smoke and warmth. The blunt passed in lazy circles between the three teens.

But even as the night wore on, Larry couldn’t stop thinking about it.

 

What was it?

Why would he be the thing that set Travis off?

Chapter 5: Swingset

The weekend came too soon for Travis.

He spent Friday lurking in the halls, avoiding Larry and Sal like they carried the plague. He stuck to glaring at them when they weren’t looking—his only form of power left. And now, Saturday hung over him like a storm cloud. Tomorrow was Sunday.

He knew he was supposed to love worship. To find peace in it. That’s what his father said. That’s what the sermons said. But every time he knelt at the altar, he felt like a liar. Filthy. The feelings blooming inside him had long since rooted themselves in his chest, curling like vines around his heart.

He sat on the edge of his bed, still in sleepwear—loose grey shorts and a plain purple shirt. The covers behind him were a mess, but he hadn’t bothered to make the bed. It was still morning. He rubbed sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand, blinking blearily at the barred window.

He didn’t know why the bars had been put there in the first place. It wasn’t like he was going to jump—not from a second-story attic window. But it said enough about what his father thought of him.

He snapped to attention at the sound of heavy footsteps climbing the stairs—steady and deliberate. The floor creaked beneath the weight. Travis turned to look at the door just as it creaked open.

“Yes, Father?” he asked, sitting up straighter without thinking. His posture snapped to something respectful, automatic. Kenneth stood in the doorway, staring down at him with that same cold, dissecting gaze. He always paused before speaking, as if expecting his son to hang on every word like it was scripture.

“I have business to attend to today,” Kenneth said. “I will not be home until late tonight. It will be time-consuming, so I’ll be leaving shortly. I expect you’ll find a way to keep yourself occupied?”

Hope stirred quietly in Travis’s chest. Warm. Dangerous. He didn’t let it show.

“Yes, sir,” he murmured. “I thought I might study my Bible and then maybe spend some time at the library?”

He bowed his head just enough—submissive, but not weak. A display his father would see as obedience.

Kenneth nodded, seemingly satisfied. “A responsible and productive way to spend your day.”

He turned to go, but then glanced back over his shoulder.

“I should return by ten. Perhaps earlier. Make sure you’re home before dark, Travis.”

Travis nodded without a word, watching his father disappear down the stairs, every step deliberate, rehearsed—like even leaving the house had to be a performance. The front door slammed shut with a finality that echoed in his chest. Silence settled in the house like smoke.

He exhaled through his nose, slow and shaky. And then his shoulders dropped.

He wasn’t reading the Bible. Not today. Not when the verses curled around his throat like a noose. Every time he opened that book, it was just another reminder of what he was supposed to be. What he wasn't. Each passage sat like glass on his tongue, sharp, jagged, and unforgiving. He was tired of pretending that faith was enough to drown the thoughts clawing at the back of his brain.

The library? Hell no. That place was just another sterile box with too much silence and not enough air. Another cage—just without the bars this time. He didn’t need more knowledge. He needed space. He needed something real. Something that didn’t talk back in Bible verses or watch him through glassy-eyed portraits of Jesus.

Maybe the park.

Maybe the swing set that groaned like it had been forgotten by time.

Maybe the pond.

Maybe just somewhere where the wind didn’t sound like his father’s voice wrapped in the weight of his sin.

As soon as the house creaked back into stillness, he was moving. His door shut with a soft click, and he peeled off his sleepwear. He tugged a hoodie over his torso like armor, purple and faded from too many washes. His jeans were stiff with disuse—he barely left the house for anything besides school and church.

He stood in front of the mirror for a moment, brushing the sleep from his eyes and dragging his fingers through his hair. The dyed blonde clung to the comb. Dark brown roots peeked through—his father’s least favorite reminder that his mother ever existed.

Travis stared at himself in the mirror, jaw tight, expression unreadable. He didn’t know what he hated more: the bruises, the empty look in his eyes, or the fact that Larry’s face had been creeping into his thoughts more and more lately. His voice. His fucking laugh.

Thursday came rushing back. Larry chasing after him like he cared. Sal finding him like he’d been looking. That wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be. They were planning something—he knew it.

The jealousy that bloomed in his gut was acid-hot. It wasn’t fair. Sal had it all. Proximity. Friendship. Safety. He lived in the same damn building as Larry, got to hear him laugh in real time instead of imagining it like Travis did when the walls were closing in.

His hands shook as he finished tying his laces.

This was stupid. He needed out. He needed air.

Travis grabbed the house key from the little hook beside the door. He hesitated just long enough to listen. Nothing. Not even the creak of floorboards above. His father was really gone.

He stepped out and locked the door behind him. The metal clicked like a small freedom.

The wind hit him in the face, cold and sharp. It smelled like damp leaves and cigarette smoke. He didn’t know which neighbor smoked out here, but he breathed it in anyway. It was real. It wasn’t fake holy water or the scent of polished pews and stale hymn books.

It didn’t save him.

But it reminded him he was still alive.

Travis ran like hell, like he had Thursday—bolting through the school halls, rage and shame snapping at his heels like wolves. His sneakers pounded the pavement, the rhythm harsh and angry. Every step jarred his ribs, bruised and tender, but the pain was welcome. Needed.

He had to feel it.

To remember that his body—aching, sweaty, breathless—was still his.

Not his father's to beat.

Not the church's to shame.

Not God's to condemn.

Just his. Something he could command when everything else slipped through his fingers.

By the time he crashed through the iron gates of the park, he was gasping, doubled over. Cold air slashed through his lungs like glass. He coughed, the sound raw and ragged, and stumbled his way to the swing set—empty, thank God. Of course it was. No one came here on days like this. The sky hung low and gray, the grass wet and matted. It was the kind of day where even the ducks didn’t give a damn.

Travis dropped into the swing and rocked, slow and mechanical. Metal groaned under him. Wind bit at his ears. He let the motion lull him into a numb kind of focus.

But peace never lasted. Not for him. Of fucking course it didn’t.

Because strolling in like some goddamn thug came Larry—with that stupid cigarette dangling between his lips and his hands shoved in his pockets, walking like the world owed him a favor.

Travis didn't move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared straight ahead, pretending not to see him, praying—if prayer still meant anything—that the long-haired asshole would just keep walking.

But Larry didn’t. His boots thudded across the pavement, deliberate and slow, heavy as his stare. That clinging smell of ash and musk only got stronger.

Travis’s shoulders tensed. His hands white-knuckled the chains of the swing. His heart pounded in the hollow of his throat like it wanted to claw its way out.

Larry dropped into the swing beside him. He didn’t even look at Travis at first—just rocked a little, casual, calm. He blew out a slow stream of smoke like he had all the time in the world.

“Damn. Been here a full minute, and you haven’t called me a slur. I’m impressed,” he muttered, breaking the silence.

The swing beneath Travis stilled. The words scraped at him, lighting the fuse.

He turned his head and snapped, voice low and venomous: “Maybe ‘cause I don’t want to talk to you, bitch.”

It was automatic. A defense. A wall with barbed wire, thrown up before he could stop it. Every word a reflex honed by shame and fear, not choice.

But Larry didn’t bite back like usual. He didn’t scowl, didn’t yell. Just sat there, smoking and watching the trees sway like nothing had been said at all. He was quiet for a moment, then flicked the ash from his cigarette and shrugged.

“What if I wanna talk to you?”

The words hit Travis like one of his father’s backhanded slaps—sharp, reflexive, and leaving that same hollow sting behind. His breath caught in his throat, cold and shallow.

He didn’t want Larry here.

Because as much as he wanted Larry—as much as he ached to hear his voice, to feel the weight of his hand brushing too close, to just breathe in that cigarette smoke and sweat and faint pine-scented detergent clinging to his hoodie—this wasn’t safe. Larry wasn’t safe.

Because Larry made him feel, and Travis wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

This isn’t how a boy should feel.

The thought pulsed through his skull like a drumbeat, a bitter mantra.

This isn’t how a boy should feel.

It bounced around his brain like a rubber ball in a locked room, impossible to catch, impossible to silence.

He wanted to throw up.

So he snapped. The words tumbled out, venom-laced and jagged. “Then you’re fuckin’ ridiculous, homo. I don’t need you here infecting me with your gay cooties.”

It was childish. Cruel. Weak. He knew it. But it was easier than the truth. Easier than saying I’m terrified.

Travis only had one weapon left: projection. He wielded it like a dagger and hoped no one noticed how shaky his hands had become.

God, please forgive me.

The thought came unbidden, automatic. And it made everything worse.

Why would God make his heart beat this fast when Larry leaned close? Why would He let Larry’s name sit behind his teeth like a prayer? If God loved him, why did this feel like punishment?

None of it made sense.

Across from him, Larry just kicked at the mulch beneath his sneakers. The swing groaned beneath his weight as he rocked, slow and steady. His hair hung in front of his face, and smoke curled from between his lips.

“I’m not here to fight with you, man,” Larry murmured. His voice was low, thoughtful. “I just wanna understand you. Or where you’re coming from. Something like that.”

His eyes were serious, soft in a way that made Travis want to scream. He scratched the stubble on his jaw, and Travis’s gaze dropped before he could stop it.

The circles under Larry’s eyes. The tan of his skin. That stupid little gap between his front teeth. Travis hated how every part of him made something stir in his gut—some sick combination of longing and rage and fear.

This wasn’t fair.

He looked away sharply, jaw tightening. He was getting angry again. Good. Anger was armor. If he was angry, he wasn’t scared. If he was angry, no one could see how breakable he really was.

Because fear?

Fear was a weakness. And in Travis’s world, weakness got beaten out of you.

"Did Sal put you up to this? Does he think, just because he caught my little pity party in the bathroom, I need to be coddled like some stray?" Travis hissed, the words dragging out of his mouth like broken glass on concrete. His jaw worked, tight and tense, muscles ticking beneath skin gone clammy.

Larry blinked, his expression unreadable for a beat. Then he scoffed, rolling his eyes with a grunt of disbelief. He flicked ash from his cigarette with a lazy, practiced motion.

"No, dude. I didn’t even know you were gonna be here. Far as Sal said, he wanted to be the one to talk to you again." He paused. His eyes narrowed slightly, focusing in like a lens, the bluntness in his voice sharp as a tack.

"Because you ran when I tried."

The words didn’t hit like an insult—they landed like a fact. Flat and not ignorable. Travis grunted in response and started swinging again, just to keep from bolting. His hands gripped the cold chain like it was an anchor.

He hated being seen. Hated that Larry remembered that.

Before he could snap something back, Larry spoke again—voice casual, but sincere.

"Y’know, for someone all religious, you swear like a sailor. Isn’t that, like, against the Bible?"

It wasn’t mocking. Just confusion. Genuine curiosity. That made it worse.

Travis scoffed. His voice came out low and tired. "No, dumbass. Swearing in biblical terms is about takin’ the Lord’s name in vain. Not sayin’ 'fuck.'"

Larry hummed like that made perfect sense, flicking more ash onto the mulch. Travis didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to see that easy calm in the way he sat. But his eyes betrayed him. They flicked up.

He watched the cigarette press to Larry’s lips. Watched the smoke curl out, trailing like a sin itself from between chapped skin. His throat worked around a dry swallow.

God, please forgive me.

The words pulsed like a migraine behind his eyes.

This isn’t how a boy’s supposed to feel.

The prayer repeated, pounding like a war drum in his chest. He clenched his teeth so tight he thought they might crack.

"Look," Larry said, softer now, "I don’t like you. Pretty fuckin’ obvious. But if you ever want someone to hear you—really hear you—I’m around."

Travis rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. "You, Sal, and your pity train. I don’t need you feelin’ sorry for me. Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry over. I’m fine. I just know God hates fags, and your little homo club’s full of ‘em."

He expected a reaction. Anger, disgust, anything. It was projection and poison all wrapped in barbed wire. But Larry didn’t flinch.

He just looked at Travis. Long enough that it started to feel like a weight pressing on the back of his neck.

Then he stubbed out his cigarette on the sole of his damp shoe and flicked the butt into the mulch.

"Didn’t Jesus hang out with sinners?" Larry said. "Something like, ‘judge not, lest ye be judged’? If you need people to chill with—or I dunno, spread God’s good word—I’m pretty sure my friends won’t mind one more."

It hit like a trap door opening beneath Travis’s feet.

An invitation.

A backdoor into their circle dressed up like righteousness. Like salvation.

He turned his head slowly, glaring, but not really meaning it. His face was hot. His hands were clammy. He didn’t know what the hell to say. Fight? Run? Say yes?

His mind raced.

This was a sin.

This was a test.

This was temptation in a hoodie and ripped jeans with a damn gap-toothed smirk.

Larry’s voice cut through the static again.

"We’re hangin’ at my place in an hour. Me, Todd, Sal, Ashley. You can come, if you want."

Travis weighed his options in silence. The stillness stretched long, but Larry didn’t interrupt. He just stared off ahead, giving Travis space. Space to accept the open hand—or slap it away.

On one hand, this was a straight shot to damnation. It could be the first slip toward something he couldn’t afford. He wasn’t supposed to want this. Wasn’t supposed to want any of it. What if it was a trap? A devil’s trick disguised as kindness, ready to coil through his ribs and drag him into sin?

But another voice, quieter—softer—rose in his chest. One he hadn’t let himself listen to in years.

What would it feel like… to belong somewhere?

To not have to keep clawing at his own reflection in shame? To not feel like he was something festering? Something broken? Maybe not healed, but held.

The thought made his stomach twist.

He could see Kenneth’s face in his mind—hard, cold, unwavering. He could already hear the fury in his voice. Could feel the sharp crack across his face, or the shove to the ground. His father would call it righteous punishment. Beating the sin out of him like a demon from scripture.

And yet… that small voice inside only grew louder. Louder than it had ever dared before.

What if this wasn’t a test?

What if—against everything Travis believed—this was God answering him?

He hated that possibility even more than the fear that it was the Devil. Because if it was God... then why did it hurt so much?

His thoughts spiraled, tangled. The swings groaned beneath them, metal straining in the wind. Still, Larry stayed silent. Patient. Like he knew Travis was standing on the edge of something.

Outwardly, Travis just stared down at the mulch like it’d insulted him. His scowl was armor.

But he had time. His father wouldn’t be home until late. Hours from now. And that time—it could mean something.

Even if just once, even if only for today, Travis didn’t want to feel lost.

He lifted his head slowly, halting the swing with a small scuff. He looked at Larry—eyes sharp, shoulders tense, teeth grit. Like a cornered animal forcing its fur to lie flat.

“…Fine. Whatever. Sure. Don’t expect me to enjoy it, though.”

Larry met his gaze. Brown eyes on hazel. Quiet. Steady. That same look again—like he saw something in Travis no one else had ever bothered to see.

"Cool," Larry said, casual and light. “We’ll hang here for fifteen, then head out. Addison Apartments aren’t far.”

Just fact. Just… simple.

Travis nodded, stiff and awkward, swinging again. He stared out at the pond. The still water. The overcast sky.

This could be the biggest mistake of his life.

Or the first right step he’d ever taken.

Either way, the weight of it pressed into his lungs. And it scared him down to the bone.

Chapter 6: Starting again

Notes:

A/N sorry for being a little bitch by not updating. This chapter is being uploaded, and there will be a new chapter either this weekend or next week, depending on how satisfied I am with my own editing.

Larry didn’t know how the hell to feel as he walked side by side with Travis toward the Addison Apartments. On one hand, this was progress. He could finally start to crack Travis open, figure him out. Maybe Sal was right—though Larry would only admit that if someone dragged it out of him.

On the other hand? He still wanted to wring Travis’s neck for the shit he’d said to Sal on Monday. That part wasn’t complicated. Anger never was.

Larry lived in anger. Angry his dad left. Angry at the world, at every injustice, at every asshole who thought they could step on someone weaker. He carried that fury like a second skin. Painting was the only place it bled out safely—put on a Sanitys Fall CD, drag a brush across canvas, and for a little while, the noise in his head faded.

But it always came back. It always burned in his gut like acid. The only good that came out of it was when he turned it outward, weaponized it to protect the people he loved.

Neither boy spoke. Their footsteps were the only rhythm—gravel crunching under shoes in sync. Larry kept sneaking glances out the corner of his eye, trying to read the preacher’s kid, the holier-than-thou prick.

Travis wouldn’t look at him. His gaze darted everywhere but Larry, sharp and restless. His shoulders were too tight, his fingers twitchy. Like he was waiting for someone to jump out of the bushes and drag him off.

Weird. Real weird. Larry was used to Travis being loud and mean, baring his teeth like a stray dog. But this? This skittish, cornered-rabbit act? It unsettled him in a way he didn’t like.

His hands twitched inside his hoodie pocket until finally he gave in to the itch and pulled out his cigarettes.

“We’re almost there,” he mumbled around the lighter, sparking it up. He took a long drag, then tilted the pack toward Travis. “You want one? You look spazzed out, dude.”

Travis jolted like he’d been slapped, spine snapping straight. His glare flicked between the cigarette pack and Larry’s face. “Ain’t no fuckin’ way. I don’t smoke. My body is a temple for God.”

Larry’s mind betrayed him before he could stop it:
Does your dad beat that temple?

The thought hit like a sucker punch, hot and ugly. His jaw locked tight, shame rising in his throat. He hated himself for thinking it. Felt like a bastard for even letting the thought form.

“My bad,” he muttered, forcing a shrug. He dragged deep on the cigarette, letting the smoke claw its way down into his lungs. The burn, the buzz—it grounded him. It was something solid, something constant.

Larry focused on his cigarette, willing his brain to shut the hell up. Situations like this always stripped people raw. Vulnerability felt like tearing layers of wallpaper off just to find the mold and rot underneath. And Larry knew damn well everyone had rot. Everyone had something festering behind their walls.

He just hated that he was noticing it with Travis fucking Phelps. It made his veins buzz in a way he didn’t understand. Maybe dread. Maybe something worse.

Five minutes of silence passed, broken only by the crackle of Larry’s smoke and the shuffle of their sneakers. By the time they reached the chipped awning of Addison Apartments, Larry flicked the half-burned cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his heel. He turned to Travis, eyes hard as steel.

“Alright. Ground rules,” Larry said flatly. “You start running your mouth? We’re gonna have a problem. No slurs. No cheap shots. If you can’t say something decent, then shut the fuck up. Got it?”

Travis blinked at him slowly, his face blank in a way that set Larry on edge. Then came the inevitable roll of the eyes, the huff like a spoiled kid. That, at least, Larry knew how to deal with. Bitter Travis was familiar. This version of Travis was manageable.

“Yeah, whatever,” Travis muttered, lips curling into a sneer as he shot Larry a sideways glare the second he looked away.

Larry led Travis inside, trudging past the identical wooden doors that lined the hall. Every few steps, he flicked a glance over his shoulder, checking if the blonde was still there. He told himself it didn’t matter—not even a little—but some twitch in his gut refused to believe it.

He shoved the thought down hard. No fucking way he was giving it room to breathe.

At the elevator, he swiped his keycard and hit the basement button. The panel beeped, the little red light flaring like a warning.

Travis raised a brow. “You need a keycard just to get down there?” His voice carried that flat, too-cool boredom, like he wasn’t actually curious but couldn’t resist pointing it out.

Larry barked a short laugh before he could choke it back. It came out sharp, almost mean. “Yeah, no shit. You’ve got eyes, right? Don’t ask me why. I don’t make the rules.”

The joke fractured the tension for half a second—but only half.

The elevator hummed around them, metal box too small, too quiet. Larry stared at his shoes like they were a masterpiece, anything to avoid meeting Travis’s eyes. Just standing in that silence with him felt raw, like holding a bare wire.

When the doors finally groaned open, Larry jerked his head sideways. “C’mon.” His voice was gruff, clipped. He led the way down the concrete hall until they hit his apartment door, then pushed it open.

He didn’t bother softening his tone as Travis stepped in behind him. “Ash, Todd, and Sal are in my room. You remember the rules—watch your mouth, or you’re gone.” His words carried a hard edge, protective like barbed wire.

Larry knew he was giving Travis an opening, against every ounce of his better judgment. One wrong move from the church boy and he’d either defenestrate him—or, fine, just throw his ass out. Either worked.

Larry opened his bedroom door, kicking his shoes off at the entrance with a dull thud. His friends looked up, their comfort fractured instantly by the unfamiliar shadow trailing in behind him. Sal lounged on the bed, Ash sat cross-legged by the stereo, and Todd was half-sunk into the beanbag she’d dragged over weeks ago.

Todd jerked upright, spine stiff as a board. His eyes flicked from Larry to Travis, the shift sharp enough to register alarm. Ash and Sal exchanged a quick glance—blue meeting green, both carrying the same unspoken what the hell?

“Travis wants to join us,” Larry announced, as if it were the most casual thing in the world. He dropped himself onto the bed beside Sal, ignoring the way Travis looked ready to bark a protest. The blonde’s jaw worked furiously, chewing the words down before they could escape. Finally, he just sighed through his nose and shoved his hands deep into his hoodie pocket, radiating discomfort.

Larry studied him like a wolf circling prey. Travis stood there awkward, stiff, a goose among ducks. He didn’t know where to place himself, didn’t know how to exist in this room.

Sal was the first to break the silence. He scooted over on the mattress, brushing closer to Larry, and gestured to the space beside him.
“Here. Come sit,” he offered, his voice calm, welcoming from behind the mask.

Larry tensed. His eyes narrowed. This was it—what would Travis do with an olive branch? He expected a snarl, a crack, a venom-laced refusal. But instead… hesitation.

Travis’s eyes darted between Sal, the bed, and Larry. His brows knotted, his nose curled just slightly, that familiar look of distaste written across his face. But Larry saw through it this time. It wasn’t disgust. Not the real thing. Because if Travis was truly repulsed, he wouldn’t have even stepped foot inside. No—this was something more fragile. Suspicion. Unease.

And that realization punched Larry in the throat. It strangled his breath before agitation burned through him like acid. This was just Travis. Just the egotistical preacher’s kid who strutted like he was God’s gift. Larry refused to feel any damn empathy for him.

Ash piped up, her tone lighter, almost teasing. “Sal won’t bite you, you know.”

Travis swallowed hard and avoided her gaze. Still, he crossed the room in careful, reluctant steps and perched on the very edge of the mattress like it might swallow him whole if he dared to relax.

Todd was rigid, his fingers fidgeting against his jawline as his nerves leaked through every twitch. The air between them felt like a loaded gun—everyone waiting for the misfire.
“Uh… do we need to change plans now? Since he’s here?” Todd’s words stumbled out, directed nervously toward Sal and Ash.

Larry threw his arms wide. “Okay, seriously? Why am I the only one left out of these so-called plans? We’re literally in my room!”

Ash shot him a sly grin. “Revenge. For you and Sal sneaking around with your plans.” She let her eyes flick toward Travis just briefly, sharp enough for Larry to catch.

He scoffed, exasperated but playful. “And yet no one punishes Sal. Figures.”

Sal’s smirk tugged beneath the prosthetic, his eyes crinkling. “It’s because I’m the favorite,” he deadpanned.

Larry jabbed him in the shoulder, but the moment of levity passed quick as smoke. “Yeah, yeah. So spill. What are these mysterious plans?”

Todd finally reached into his khaki pocket, fingers hesitant, and pulled out a small unlabeled tin. Larry’s pulse spiked instantly—he knew what it was before Todd even spoke.

“My parents made a new batch of gummies,” Todd explained, voice low. “Stronger blend this time. I… took enough for all of us. But, uh—” his gaze darted toward Travis—“I’m not sure he’d even want to.”

All eyes fell on the blonde. Larry leaned in, watching like a hawk. Travis’s posture was taut, but his eyes flickered nervously. Usually he had a smug one-liner ready. This time, he faltered.

“Well…” Travis’s voice cracked slightly. He licked his dry lips, glaring at his own hands. “I can’t think of a Bible verse that says cannabis is wrong. It’s a natural plant. But I’ve never—I don’t—” He stopped himself, fingers attacking his cuticles as though they’d sinned against him.

Sal’s hand twitched upward, almost resting on Travis’s shoulder, but he froze halfway, unwilling to spook him. “Hey. Don’t stress. No one’s making you do anything.”

Ash tilted her head, tone carefully curious. “If we take them, are you gonna feel left out?”

Larry barked a laugh, sharp and incredulous. “Wow. Look at us. Suddenly considerate.” He turned his glare onto Travis, his voice cutting like a knife. Not angry, but demanding. "So what’s eating you, Travis? Afraid one little gummy’s gonna kill you?”

________

But it might. Oh, it might.

Travis’s nerves were shot, frayed wires sparking at the back of his skull. Not because of the weed itself. He didn’t see it as some dangerous drug. Not really. God made the plants of this earth, and in his eyes, that meant every one of them had a purpose. A cannabis plant was no exception.

No—his real fear came from what happened after. When the high wore off. The morning sun still slanted through the blinds, but Travis had never been high before. He didn’t know how long it would last, how it would feel, or if it would betray him. He needed to be home early, before his father returned. Before the house turned into a place of shadows and silence again.

And what if he lost control? What if his lips slipped, his walls cracked, and something ugly and fragile came spilling out? What if he said the one thing he couldn’t take back—the truth about the boy with dark hair and nicotine-stained fingers who haunted his every thought?

“Let’s not pressure him, dude,” Sal said, his voice even, steadying.

Ash nodded. Todd too. From the floor, the brunette girl leaned up over the mattress. “He’s got boundaries. We shouldn’t cross them. I thought you were gonna be nice?”

Larry scoffed, waving a hand at Travis like he was nothing but an obstacle. “I was nice. At the park. But this is my domain. And since when did Travis care about boundaries? He’s been breaking them his whole life. I’m just asking why not!”

Their words blurred in Travis’s ears, distant and fogged, as though he were listening through water. He wasn’t here—not really. The only thing that clung to him was that goddamned question, echoing in his skull like a hammer blow: What’s eating at you?

“I never said I wouldn’t.” His own voice startled him. Firm. Sharp-edged. A blade held in shaking hands.

His defenses rose, the familiar armor sliding into place. But it wasn’t there to cut anyone else down this time. It was there to prop him up, to patch the cracks that were spreading across his surface. Weakness wasn’t an option. Not for him. Weakness cost dignity. Weakness gave people weapons. And Travis knew too well what people did with weapons.

“I ain’t worried about nothing. I just want to make sure I can walk straight by the time evening comes.”

He locked eyes with Larry, refusing to look away. This was him playing by their rules—no insults, no slurs, no vicious barbs. But that didn’t mean he’d bare his throat. His pride wouldn’t let him. Even if the fight was eating him alive inside.

God, why did I agree to this?

He shifted closer to Sal—not reaching out, not in friendship, but staking his ground like an animal circling a kill. His body said what his words wouldn’t: I’m not scared. I’m not prey. Even as the little boy inside him trembled and begged to run.

“Whatever. I’ll do it.”

Larry’s eyes flicked toward Todd, the grin tugging at his lips undercut by a small furrow in his brow. He was trying to read Travis, like a puzzle that didn’t quite fit. “Alright. Todd, pass the gummies around. How many to really mess us up?”

The jar opened with a metallic snap. “Two each,” Todd said. “And maybe one of your Sanitys Fall CDs. We’ll all melt into the furniture.”

Larry whistled, hopping off the mattress with a squeak of springs. Travis’s gaze betrayed him, trailing after him—his hair falling over his face, the small gap between his teeth, the sun-touched skin. His heartbeat climbed into his throat until it felt like it might choke him.

The image of Larry’s lips wrapped around the cigarette filter was still burned into his eyelids.

Forgive me, Father, for I am sinning. And I don’t know how to stop.

He closed his eyes, drawing in a breath that didn’t steady him. When he opened them again, Sal was watching. Not with judgment, not with scorn, but with quiet focus. With care.

“You sure you want to do this? You don’t have to, man.”

Sal. Always thinking of others. Always holding out a hand, even to those who’d spit in his face.

Travis hated that. Hated the way it cracked something open inside him. The guilt crawled through his stomach, curdling his insides. This boy—this kind, scarred, forgiving boy—had been his target for weeks. He had every right to despise Travis. But he didn’t. And that was unbearable.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Travis muttered, his chin high, his eyes sliding away. The posture said pride, but inside he’d never felt so naked. So transparent.

Then the music hit. A roar of guitars and drums, alien and electric. He’d never heard metal before. His father had called it devil’s music, forbidden it, locked it behind closed doors. But here it was, rattling his bones, vibrating through his chest like a pulse. It was better than any hymn he’d ever been forced to sing.

He didn’t even notice the tension melting from his body. Just the gummies in his hand, heavy, waiting.

Larry sat back down, his hand brushing Travis’s. His mind stuttered. His stomach lurched with butterflies and bile.

This isn’t how a boy should feel.
This isn’t how a boy should feel.

The mantra beat against his skull until his jaw clenched. He forced the gummies into his mouth, chewing before he could think.

Larry watched him like a hawk until his throat worked. Then he smirked. “Hopefully that’s enough to mellow your stuck-up ass out.”

Travis bristled. “Hey—you said no cheap shots. Why do you get to take them?”

“Yeah, man,” Sal said, grinning. “No serving what you told Trav he couldn’t dish out.”

Even Todd cracked a small smile. “Hypocrisy at its finest.”

Larry gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “You’re all turning on me? For church boy Travis? Traitors!”

Ash just laughed, chin in her hand. “Sorry, dude. You earned this one.”

And for the first time in longer than he could remember, warmth flickered in Travis’s chest. Small. Fragile. Like the first stitch across a wound that had been left open too long.

He didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t know if he’d ever feel it again. But something deep in him whispered that this mattered. That this choice, right here, meant more than he could see. That maybe—just maybe—his life was tilting toward something else.

But answers never came when you wanted them. They only came later.

And Travis had always been good at waiting.