Chapter Text
Raucous laughter and the pungent odor of alcohol hang in the air. It’s a combination that Sal has grown accustomed to, for better or for worse. He’s not the poster child for house parties, but somehow he always finds himself being dragged along for the ride. As Sal looks around the room at his friends, sitting in some kind of circle with him and passing a bottle of cheap whiskey around, his teeth dig into the soft skin of his inner cheek.
The tic only grows worse, canines threatening to break skin as the whiskey is passed into his own hands. For a second, he holds it between them, feeling the weight of the bottle. He runs through an internal dilemma, waging war in his mind for five seconds before a finger curls under his prosthetic, tugging it away from his face. It isn’t the end of the world if he joins them in drinking it, right? Alcohol always seemed to make his friends more warm, more alive; but no matter what, he always felt ever so slightly on edge at these events. He craved the normalcy his friends exuded.
His mouth finds itself wrapped around the thread of the bottle, taking two small sips before realizing maybe this isn’t the best idea. The prosthetic snaps back in place, and he passes the bottle to his left. The acetic burn of whiskey coating his throat makes him cringe, and he almost wishes it wouldn’t be too lame of him to just ask for water or apple juice or something else non-alcoholic to chase it down with.
His father was an alcoholic, and he’d seen firsthand how hard it could be to prevent oneself from indulging in vices, but despite trying a few sips of the stuff himself from time to time, he never saw the appeal. He prioritized clear and straightforward communication, and drinking seemed to get in the way of that. It always left him a little too foggy to feel like he was really present, too nauseous to want to continue. Far be it from him to understand how someone could ruin their life over it.
And yet this is where Sal Fisher found himself: in the basement of Ashley’s house, two sips of Jim Beam in his churning stomach, sitting in silence next to his best friend and across from his crush—as well as his high school bully, who was given a last minute invite that no one thought he’d actually follow through with—as the three of them pass the bottle around and talk about whatever comes to mind. He's been mulling over how to excuse himself to go upstairs and use the bathroom for the past minute and a half, when suddenly, Ash breaks the silence after she’s taken a sip. Considering the liquid courage in her blood, what she says doesn’t come as a surprise.
“We should spice things up a little bit.” She elbows Travis in the arm and turns to him, a proud grin on her face. “Don’t you think so, Trav?”
He glares at her. “Considering what you freaks could come up with? Yeah, no thanks. Leave me out of it.”
Larry, on the other hand, pops his head up immediately. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yeah. We should play–”
“Spin the Bottle,” the two of them suggest in unison, laughing. He leans back a little, carding a hand through his baby hairs to get them off his face. Sal watches the way his hair cascades in a smooth, dark waterfall down his back.
“Hell yeah. Yeah, I'm down.”
“I feel like you guys are way too drunk to make informed decisions,” Sal points out.
Travis scoffs. “Speak for yourself. I've only had a few sips.”
“Dude, a few? If each sip counts for six, maybe. You've had more than Larry,” Ash retorts.
“Have not.”
“Have too.”
Larry grabs the bottle from Ash and chugs, recoiling with a shudder and a laugh when he finally pulls it away from his mouth. “Have not.”
“Okay, well, now I definitely haven’t.”
“How can you play Spin the Bottle with only four people?” Sal picks some lint off his black shirt, which, suddenly, is positively fascinating to him. Much more than whatever is going on. “It would be a really short game, getting through all the combinations.”
“Don’t overthink it! Maybe you should have another sip? Might change your mind.” Ash giggles, snatching the bottle of Jim Beam back from Larry and starting to hand it to him. “Here.”
“No, really. I'm okay. I’ll ask if I want any more.”
“You suuuure?”
Sal sighs, but it isn’t exasperated. It’s resigned. “Yes, Ash, I’m sure.”
She pouts, giving the bottle back to Larry and reaching for the pack of Djarum Blacks at her side. “Party pooper.”
“Wait, wait wait wait. Idea time.” Larry takes another sip, screwing the cap on the bottle and setting it down with a dramatic thud against the basement carpet.
“Oh, here we go,” Travis groans.
“Seven Minutes in Heaven.” Larry emphasizes every word.
Ash has already lit a clove cigarette, taking a big, crackling drag from it. She blows the smoke above and behind her head, filling the basement with the scent of incense. “Genius.”
“Because a full round would be half an hour, right? Way longer than Spin the Bottle, if you're just doing quick smooches.”
“Was it ever gonna be just quick smooches with you, Lar Bear? I feel like you're not the type for quickies.”
“Oh, I like to take my time, but I can do quickies,” Larry purrs. He leans in, spellbound, tugging a lock of Ashley’s hair to pull her closer to him. “Trust me.” He looks over at Travis, quickly snapping out of it. “What do you think?”
“I think none of you are going to heaven.”
Larry lets go of Ashley’s hair and leans back with uproarious laughter. She takes another drag, exhaling the smoke directly in Travis’ face.
“About the game,” she clarifies loudly.
He coughs a little, scowling. “I mean, it’s not like I have a choice, but isn't it getting kind of late?”
“We can leave it at one round, if you’re so opposed. I was gonna call it a night afterwards, anyway.”
“And you can go first, too,” Sal muses quietly. “To get your turn out of the way.”
“Woah, really?” Larry stares at Sal, stunned. “You’re down?”
Sal shrugs. “Not like I have much of a choice, either.”
“Fine, then.” Travis reaches out a hand in a ‘gimme’ gesture. “Make it quick.”
Larry grins, handing the bottle over to him. “Show me what you got, big boy.”
He blushes furiously. “Shut it, fag, or I’m leaving. I mean it.”
This doesn't discourage Larry, who’s easily the most drunk right now—instead, he tilts Travis’ chin up with a finger to look at him.
“Mm, you won’t be saying that when I’m done with you.”
“Holy hell, Larry, keep it in your pants,” Sal laughs in disbelief. He turns to Travis, pointing to the basement closet with a thumb. “You really don't have to do anything in there, if you're not comfortable. You know that. Right?”
Travis ignores him, swatting Larry’s hand away from his face and spinning the bottle as fast as the liquid inside will allow it. It rolls to the side as it stops, stopping its arc of motion with the neck of the bottle pointing somewhere between Sal and Travis. The latter curls his knees up to his chest.
“Again, you really don't have to–”
“Shut up. Get in there. Make this quick.”
Sal looks at him pityingly, getting up onto his feet and walking over to the closet. After what feels like an eternity, Travis gets up as well, stopping just before Sal opens the closet door. He gives him a glare, and once Travis has begrudgingly entered, Sal shuts the door behind them.
The two sit down in the darkness of the closet. It’s a little hard to navigate, what with the minimal light peeking through the door and hanging coats taking up all the space, but they manage just fine, and their vision eventually adjusts. They’re both sitting as far away from each other as possible with their knees towards their chest, with Travis especially hugging around his legs for dear life. Sal, personally, has no idea what to say in this kind of scenario. ‘Sorry Larry and Ash put you up to this?’ ‘Sorry you have to sit in a closet with me?’ ‘I’m sorry for every time I’ve made fun of you about your dad, not knowing how bigoted and terrible he actually was?’ It feels like ten thousand years have passed (okay, it's probably only two minutes) before Travis finally pipes up and says something.
“I’m not some kind of… homo, you know. Like you and your friends.”
Sal ignores the insult and smiles understandingly from behind his prosthetic, even though there's no way Travis can actually see his face. He rests his chin on his arms.
“I know.”
“But Larry, and Ashley, they're– They’ll hear, if we're not doing anything. Right?”
“I mean, probably. But what can they do, y’know? They’re not gonna shove you on top of me if they open the door and see us like this.”
“That’s a fat fucking lie and you know it.”
“That– okay, yeah. They might.” Sal laughs quietly, shifting his weight back onto his palms. “They’d be pretty disappointed you weren't getting any action.”
Travis peeks his head up and gets on his knees to scoot a few inches closer to him. “But what about you?”
“Me?”
“Yeah.” Travis finally sits back down, and this time, it's directly next to him. It’s like the action physically pains him, but he puts his head on Sal’s shoulder—who tenses up at first, a little surprised, but pretty quickly relaxes and tentatively reciprocates the gesture, leaning against him. For all the insults and bullying Travis directs his way, Sal knows most of it is just projection. It must be really hard to carry around as many burdens as he does all the time; downright painful. A shoulder to lean on is the least he can give him.
“What about me?”
It takes a moment for him to speak, but Travis’ voice is hesitant when he does, deliberating. Like every word is heavy on his tongue.
“What would they think? If you weren't getting any action.”
“I…”
Huh. What would Larry and Ash think? They’d presumably also expect more of him, or that he should be putting on some kind of drunken, debauched performance. They probably have some weird ideal in their whiskey-addled heads of the kind of pervert that Sal actually is, and for all intents and purposes, he is very grateful he doesn't live up to that. But what if it turned out he wasn't that kind of person after all—if he actually was just an introverted dork who clammed up when talking to a pretty girl? Or some kind of shy loser who had no idea how to react when a boy opened up to him in the school bathroom? What would they think then?
“Honestly, I’m not sure. I don’t know if it's what they could actually picture me doing, but…I feel like they'd probably approve of me getting some action over nothing. Even if it was you.” He huffs a laugh, and quickly adds, “Uh, no offense meant by that.”
“Pfft. None taken. I'm not exactly a looker.”
“Don’t talk about yourself like that, man. Besides, look who you're talking to. You're not so bad.”
“Okay, listen, if this is some shitty attempt at flirting–”
Sal rolls his eyes, losing some of his patience. “Please, just shut up for a second. Look, I– I know we usually don't get along, but forget about that for now, alright? We're trapped in here for another few minutes, and I’m not keeping time. So if you wanna make this any more awkward than it already is, be my guest. Otherwise…I dunno. Move around and make noise, so Larry and Ash think we're doing something.”
Travis kicks his foot hard against the wall of the closet, which is definitely not what Sal had in mind. The loud impact vibrates in the walls of the closet and makes him jump. After a moment, Travis slaps a hand against the wall as well, for good measure. Quieter this time. This takes Sal off guard, and he busts out laughing. Soon, it's both of them.
“What’s so funny in there? You guys fuckin’ or not?” It’s muffled, but the voice definitely belongs to Ashley.
“You wish!” Travis yells from inside the closet. He snickers into Sal’s shoulder, who leans into him, laughing just as hard.
“Oh yeah, harder,” Sal shouts, affecting the most egregiously feminine porn star moan possible.
“One of you better be fucked when I get in there, or I’m doin’ it myself!” Larry shouts right against the door, slamming against it with a palm and leaving the weight of his footsteps as he walks away. Sal is wracked with full-body giggles, but Travis pretty much immediately pulls his head away and grabs Sal’s shoulder with both hands, a look of horror on his red face.
“Oh, god,” Sal whispers, another laugh escaping him. “That was, like, right in your ear, dude. I'm so sorry.”
Travis’ voice is a hoarse whisper. It comes out shaky. “You're sick. You know that?”
Sal’s face falls. The silly moment from before, what could even be considered enjoying himself in Travis’ presence—it’s instantly extinguished. “What?”
“You pulling that kind of shit. What if–” He visibly swallows, breathing heavily. “What if they actually think, that we–”
“Are you serious?” Sal stares at him. “It– it was a joke. They obviously don’t think that.”
“How would they know? They…they’re expecting it, from you–”
Sal just keeps staring, like he can't even believe the gall of whatever he's saying. “You think I actually sound like that?”
“How should I know??”
He laughs derisively. “What, do you sound like that?”
Travis’ face goes purple, shoving away Sal’s shoulder with both of his hands. “Wh– no, what– gross, why would you even–”
“Then why would I?!”
“Why do you think, you fucking faggot?”
“Wow, classy.” Sal leans against the front wall of the closet, unimpressed. “You kiss your daddy with that tongue?”
Travis looks at him with an inscrutable expression—it’s rage, maybe, or hurt; but there's something else he can't quite place. “Apologize.”
“Ah– you’re right. The dad stuff is out of line.” He winces. “Sorry.”
“Not that. For earlier. Apologize.” What, for leaning against him?
“Wh– uh, I’m sorry? For…earlier?”
Travis just keeps staring at him, impatience creeping through his features. He gestures his hand in a slow circle for him to keep going. Wait. Is he actually asking him to apologize for that? Sal tuts his tongue in loud exasperation.
“For fuck’s sa–” Sal cuts himself short and rolls his eyes so hard, he's worried he might pull something. “Travis, I am so sorry that my girly, faggoty fake-moaning could have ever possibly made Larry and Ashley think, for even a moment, that there was something going on between us,” he declares. There’s not an ounce of genuine remorse in his monotone. “How can I ever make this up to you.”
Travis, weirdly enough, moves closer to him. “I can think of one way.”
Sal raises a dispassionate eyebrow, chewing on the inside of his lip. “Yeah? What’s that?”
He truly had nothing in mind that he could think of in terms of apology gestures, let alone why his actions warranted an apology gesture in the first place. Even still, what Travis did next was not something he was expecting. In an instant, their faces are slightly too close for comfort as Travis throws a leg over Sal’s lap, resting his weight against him.
“Show me what you actually sound like,” he breathes. And when Travis grinds against him with a roll of his hips, both of them suck in the air through their teeth—Travis in stimulated arousal, Sal in resigned affirmation.
Oh. He's hard.
Sal hesitantly puts his hands on Travis’ hips to steady him. He tries to scoot back to put a little bit of distance between them, but only succeeds in grinding in the opposite direction. Maybe those two sips of whiskey were bigger than he thought; for some reason, the weight of Travis in his lap and the resulting friction is actually getting to him a little bit.
“I…Listen, you don’t–”
“Shut up.” Travis punctuates the first word with the slap of his hand against the front wall of the closet, and leans on it to steady himself.
“O-okay.”
He can't really push him off, and the heat radiating against his crotch is not entirely unwelcome, but it is kind of weird considering it belongs to someone who has quite literally decked him across the face. Let alone the fact that it's another guy. He grabs Travis’ hips more forcefully, and it extracts a whine from the other boy’s throat. Sal’s voice is slightly more ragged than he wants it to be when he speaks.
“Is this what you were expecting, then? From playing this game.”
“Sh–” Travis gasps, breathless. “Shut up. What did I just say?”
“That you wanted to hear me moan for you, or something.”
Travis fidgets in his lap again, and admittedly, it does feel kind of good. Sal breathes out a little sigh, in his best approximation of one of his typical moans. The hand against the wall of the closet starts losing its grip.
“Ahhh, oh, shit, that– um. Uh.”
Sal can’t help but smirk behind his prosthetic at the sound of Travis falling apart on top of him. “You like that? Was that what you wanted?”
“I– uh, y– Maybe.”
“It was, wasn’t it? You got riled up over nothing, so you wanted the real thing.” There's an edge creeping into his voice. “I bet you'd take this from anybody, hm? Wouldn’t even matter who. Slut.”
“No, that–” Travis hides his face in his hands, stopping his movement. Sal forcibly grinds his hips back down onto his lap, which in turn forces a whimper out of him.
“What? You shy all of a sudden?”
His voice breaks. “Nnh, no, it’s– I just– Sal.”
Is he crying? Is he actually fucking crying right now, after taking initiative and getting in someone’s lap? Even so, there’s something so pitiful in the way that his voice cracks, so vulnerable, that whatever irritation or annoyance Sal may have had before is completely gone.
“Wh–? Hey, hey hey. What? Look, you don’t– I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Do you–”
He takes a deep breath. Calm down, he thinks. Be the bigger person here.
“You don't have to do this, if you don't want to. I'm really sorry if I made it seem like you did. Or if I forced you. Seriously. We can stop, if you want.”
He thought this was the correct choice of words, but for reasons unknown to him, Travis flushes, goes pale, and quickly removes himself from Sal’s lap, in that order. He's standing up to open the closet door when Larry opens it first, standing right in front of him.
“Yo. It’s been seven m–”
“You guys are disgusting,” Travis spits. He walks past Larry as fast as humanly possible.
Sal is left sitting against the closet wall, half-hard and taken aback. He and Larry share puzzled eye contact, and he looks over at Travis.
“Dude, are you okay?”