Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Darkness.

It was everywhere. Surrounding him, shaping his path. He walked through it, fully aware that it was both in front of him and behind, to the right and to the left. It filled the entire room—if the place where he was could even be called a ‘room.’

Darkness was everywhere. It clung to his body like mold. Or maybe the mold was darkness, and the darkness was mold? The destructive nature of both beings blended perfectly into one entity, so why not consider them to be one and the same?

Following this line of thinking, we could attribute all beings with similar characteristics to darkness. So, doesn’t that mean he was becoming darkness, and darkness was becoming him? If it filled the entire space, it logically followed that he, too, was a space that was filled. This space was contaminated, and he entered into this contamination knowingly—so was it his fault, or the fault of the darkness as one and the same? After all, he was it, and it was him, so why not shift his guilt onto it, given that it, being him, is the reason for its own existence, and he is the reason for its being? His actions belong to it, and its destruction belongs to him, for they are one and the same. And one who is the second becomes the first, and the first is also the second, so unity has become multiplicity, multiplicity unity, and plurality ceased to exist.

If multiplicity is unity, and unity multiplicity, then plural beings end their existence, transforming into singular beings, and singular beings into plural. Thus, I now declare that planets do not exist—there is only a planet. Water does not exist; there are waters. A horse does not exist; there are horses. A finger does not exist, but there are fingers, and fingers do not exist, for there is a finger. Humans too have ceased to exist, and the last human is you — Sally.

For it is you who chose darkness to become you, and it chose you to become it.

Travis was sitting in one of his favorite cafes, where he spent his gloomy afternoons finishing the remnants of his work as an accountant.

The decor was simple—the walls were wooden, probably made of walnut, polished with wood conditioner or some kind of varnish. The blond knew this because the boards of these walls gleamed with an unnatural shine whenever they met the morning or evening sunbeams. It was the same now, as the setting sun came to bid farewell to the beloved cafe by gently caressing the randomly scattered yellow cotton sofas next to the tables, which matched the color of the walls described earlier. The distance between each table was so perfect that a movement of even a millimeter would disturb the harmony here, as they were not close enough to hear every detail of a nearby conversation, but also not so far apart that the unused empty space would fill customers with discomfort.

Here and there, flowers were tucked in. On the windowsills, there were popular orchids, and in another pot, there was ivy, cleverly winding around the free space. The sight of so many plants was truly astonishing only after a longer observation. You see the sun, like a mother, surrounding the flower, providing it with the energy it needs to live (photosynthesis). If you look closer, you will see the more vibrant, brighter colors of the flower, as if, in a gesture of happiness at the sight of its beloved sunbeams, it lightens its old, gloomy colors, opening its heart.

Travis had never considered identifying himself with flowers—a symbol of beauty and purity. However, over time, he began to notice certain abstract similarities.

The relationship with flowers was complicated, as only a few could maintain it. A flower required endless patience and memory—it grew over weeks but needed daily water, sun, the right temperature, and... love?

A flower was also friendlier when it brightened its appearance thanks to the presence of the sun. Travis, too, lightened his hair. As if in an absurd gesture of making himself seem more approachable, more pleasant to the eye. Why absurd? Oh, the answer is quite simple!

His facial features always twisted into a look of aggression, which was an incredibly harmful representation of his person! But that was the truth. His hands were stained scarlet with blood, his heart entangled in newer and newer webs of insurmountable emotions. His brain, his thoughts, equally tainted by a lack of morality, took a defensive stance every time he saw a human creature. He wanted to speak, to talk gently. Instead, his mouth was tainted with an aggressive and rude tone; his words were sharp, roughly chosen. Father, oh father, why did he have to be like this?

He didn’t know which category to assign his feelings to. A sick desire for human connection, for a bit of contact, or maybe a choking fear of closer relationships?

His current situation could be compared to sitting down at a feast during the most popular and most exquisite banquet while on a diet. You crave to take a piece from the infinity of varied dishes, dripping with juiciness, even shimmering and gleaming, representing their tastiness. You observe others, who, like the personification of happiness, laugh and rejoice after tasting various exotic fruits or personalized world cuisine dishes. You watch an Italian enjoying Japanese cuisine or a humble Frenchman devoted to his family’s home cooking. You envy them, so you reach your frail hand out for one of a million possibilities, but it moves away from you, fleeing. You reach for another—the reaction is the same. Everything you try to even slightly touch moves away hurriedly and chaotically. You look at others taking these dishes and envy them more and more because the meals rush into the hands of strangers, unknown to you, yet they avoid you. This envy gradually grows until you finally rage, venting your frustrations on others for your own failures. You leave with a bang and a stomp.

Yet others look at you with astonishment because, in reality, it isn’t the plates running away from you, but you pushing them away.

His thoughts were frighteningly empty and bleak. However, he did not feel any complicated and tangled emotions because he had accepted reality years ago. Now, he didn’t even try to change it. All the memories of high school times gradually slipped away from his mind, as new ones replaced them quite gracefully. Whenever he thought about what he wanted to rid himself of, increasingly hazy scenes appeared before his eyes, which involuntarily pleased him. He didn’t like recalling the past, as he saw, every time, the things he hated—his mistakes and errors, words carelessly glued to another word, worsening his situation.
He sighed, entering the last of the invoices into the system to finish his work for the day. He liked his job and didn’t complain because it required absolutely no human contact. The only contact with the outside world he had was when he occasionally received a question about making him a coffee. He usually agreed.

Now he was stuck in his own world, absorbing every thought. One after another, the second after the third, and so on. He only returned to reality when he heard the rather monotonous music of his phone's ringtone. He didn’t know who was calling; he didn’t have the number saved. With a moment of hesitation, he answered.

At first, he only heard some indistinct noises, some conversation in the distance, and a cat meowing. For the first second, he considered the call a waste of time and wanted to hang up until a strangely familiar voice spoke up.

— Travis? Travis Phelps? — The sound of his name was repeated twice.

The dyed blond had no idea who was calling. The voice was distorted by some cheap microphone built into the phone, so he couldn’t recognize it clearly. He rummaged through his memory for a good moment but finally gave up, thinking it was someone from work.

— Yes. How can I help you? — He uttered a rather standard phrase, not paying much attention to his words.

— It's Sally. Sal Fisher, I mean. From high school. You remember, right? — The voice spoke again.

At the sound of these words, Travis almost choked on his own saliva. He quickly wiped his face with the sleeve of his old sweater, feeling an unpleasant knot in his stomach.

— Fisher? What the hell do you want? — He replied much more aggressively than he had intended. He cursed himself in his mind. Old habits quickly resurfaced.
In response, he heard a soft laugh.

— Just wanted to ask how you’re doing. We haven’t seen each other in a while. How’s it going?

The dark-skinned man leaned back, settling his back comfortably in the chair. If not for the fact that he held the phone in one hand, he would probably have crossed his arms across his chest.

— We both know that’s not why you’re calling. What do you want? — He repeated the question in a rather curt tone.

A moment of silence.

— Everything okay with you?

— It was fine five minutes ago.

He heard a sigh.

— Good to know you haven’t changed at all.

Travis didn’t reply.

This wasn’t good news for him. It was terrible, repulsive. He wanted to change. He wanted it more than anything he had ever wanted in his life. And now? Now, the love of his life had bluntly ruined all his dreams

A dull silence hung between them for a good minute.

— Would you like to meet up? — he heard.

He heard it, and his heart began to beat twice as fast as it should.

Chapter Text

He didn't know why he agreed.

He realized he was losing control of his body as his legs led him to a place he didn't want to see.

He was clad in fairly simple, distinctive clothing. A thick, polyester light blue sweater with a high collar, along with plain navy blue jeans that sized him perfectly. His footwear was the rather tattered and worn-out green sneakers he's been wearing since high school, because he somehow couldn't get rid of them.
He didn't wear any accessories or waste time styling his hair. A real man shouldn't take much care of himself, it contradicted his masculinity.
His face stood out. The tense frontal and nasal muscles gave an unpleasant effect of a nervous facial expression. It was a habit Travis had unconsciously developed in himself. It was rare to see his countenance in its full, relaxed splendor, although he still wouldn't have won a miss beauty contest with his reptilian, conspicuously upturned nose, which slowly grew accustomed to the wrinkles beside it. Not even his - repulsively long - unkempt and constantly bleached hair could in any way fix his ugly facial features.

It was a rather classic morning. There was mud everywhere, in places puddles with leaves dented into the ground. Late autumn emphasized its nastiness more and more each day by slowly replacing the sun with dark, black clouds.

Phelps himself was a proponent of sunshine and warmth. He disliked the winter that was about to arrive.

The scenery around him was not inviting. Everywhere one could see bare trees and their branches spreading everywhere. Brown was the dominant color, interspersed everywhere no matter where you looked. Mud, grass mixed with earth, stranded trees, decaying benches, dirty sidewalk - you could list endlessly.

Autumn was annoying.

Travis wondered what had pushed Sally to make such an absurd decision about the meeting place. He had thousands, millions of much more atmospheric places to choose from. All sorts of cafes, stores, shopping malls, and even some deplorable ikea would have been better.
Instead, there was this dirty, disgusting and damp park.

He sighed when he reached the meeting place. Reflexively, he reached out to check the time on his outdated watch.

12:36

He was at the venue round nine minutes before the appointed time.

He sighed protractedly, inhaling the cold air. He raised his head dully, looking around. He didn't notice any blue hairs on the horizon.

He pulled out his cell phone to look in the message tab. He quickly dialed a previously saved number to send a short sentence.
Did he send it? No.
He hung his blank stare on the phone with his thumb raised over the “send” button. He was cut off for a good few minutes when an eerie silence settled into his thoughts. All his attention was focused on the written sentence, the earlier blurry conversation, the bluish send icon.

A sudden touch on his arm caused Travis to shudder as it nimbly ran throughout his body. He abruptly averted his gaze, as if expecting danger.

- Travis? - He heard a voice.

But he didn't see the mouth move.

A soiled grayish denture, whose color used to be white, appeared to the eyes of the confused protagonist. In a short moment, he noticed all its dents and imperfections, including the carelessly glued pink part on the right side. The very fact that the prosthesis was glued together with duct tape was so absurd as to be amusing. Phelps sometimes found himself in situations where he would analyze in depth the mechanism of Fisher's prosthesis and how incredibly durable the adhesive tape must have been.
Two black earrings in his ears, haphazardly done ponytails over the clasps of his makeshift mask, a short blue fringe and a pair of equally blue eyes staring straight at you.

Yes, it was definitely Sal Fisher. Travis reflexively furrowed his brow.

- Do you always approach people so suddenly? - He asked reproachfully, turning to face Sally. Their height difference was dramatic.

Meanwhile Phelps also got up from the bench.

- Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. - He got the answer.

The gentle tone of these words immediately reminded him of the warm nature of the person he was talking to. He felt bad, but did not say so.

They stood in silence for a good while.

- This, uh, what did you want to talk about? - Travis finally spoke up, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

The alleged 'Sally Face' shrugged his shoulders.

- Just want to know how you're doing. You know, how life is going for you and such. - The answer was simple. Travis was disappointed, he himself didn't know why.

He stuffed his scrawny hands into the crooked stitched pockets of his sweatshirt and started walking slowly. Sally followed him, as if he understood that Phelps wanted the conversation to continue as he walked.

- Where do you work? - First question.

- I'm an accountant in the office. Nothing interesting. - He said without much enthusiasm.

- Are you making a living at it? - Fisher asked. Mother, does he have some endless supply of annoying questions?

The blond man dropped his hand carelessly on the back of his neck, scratching his skin with the remnants of the nails he had recently trimmed.

- Yeah, without much problem. How about you? - The final question barely made it through his throat. He didn't want to pronounce it, but something inside him forced him to drag on a rather monotonous conversation.

- I work in a store near the market. - He answered evasively, as if asking Travis for more questions.

He rolled his eyes.

- Which one? - He inquired in accordance with the non-verbal request.

- Uch, I doubt you would like the answer. - He heard. - An ordinary metal store, with T-shirts, accessories and such. Sometimes, on weekends, you can also find me in the music one, two streets away.

Ten seconds of silence hung over them as the man analyzed Fisher's words, one by one, carefully decomposing each single syllable into a tangle of letters that he tried to glue together in a similar way to putting together a jigsaw puzzle.

- Not my kind of thing, but I can pop in sometimes.

Both of them did not believe what they heard. A shadow of shame crossed Travis' face as he realized he had spoken his thoughts aloud.

- Really? - He stammered. - Ah, don't get me wrong, I'm glad you stop by from time to time. - He corrected. - Send you my working hours?

- As you wish. - He replied immediately.

He received no verbal confirmation. Instead, Fisher nodded and pulled out his phone. After a long moment, Travis felt a vibration in one of his pockets, heralding a new message. He didn't check it, because at the same moment Sal put the phone away, letting him know it was from him.

Another moment of silence.

- Are you still sticking with that ... your pack? - Another topic started.

- Yes, I live with them. - He began. - Well, except maybe Ash, but she often drops by.

Travis hid his disgust. Imagining Sally living with that awful group of queers made him sick. How could he waste away with such people?

...

- And you? - He heard. - Are you living with someone?

He looked at the boy, as if desperately seeking any expression on his face. In return for prying, he was greeted with an indifferent expression of indenture.

He sighed.

- No, I live alone.

- Don't you feel lonely?

The question hit him abruptly, without any announcement. With each passing second, he was reminded more and more why he had caught the teenage fever that others colloquially call “love” on him. He cursed in his mind this meeting, Sal, but also himself - yes, himself most of all.

- No. - He answered louder than he intended.

Sally apparently perceived the unusual tone of voice as a request to end all sorts of dorky questions about Travis' well-being. The lower one averted his gaze, suspending it in the blind spot in front of him.

- I understand. - He sighed. - And where do you live? In a house, a block of flats? - He continued the conversation.

- I rent an apartment. - He answered honestly. - I'm saving money to buy it. Despite appearances, it is quite cozy.

- I live in a neighborhood on the outskirts of the city, you can sometimes drop by. - He heard a cheerful invitation.

He did not intend to take advantage of it. He realized that he was not welcome there.

- Yeah, of course. - He cut off the subject.

He kept wondering about Sally's bizarrely disinterested culture. True, he had been able to use harsher language in high school, but he had limited his use of it to the impromptu arguments between them, which Travis himself had initiated. Now that they were both well into their twenties, the earlier arguments seemed like mere childishness.
How calmly they exchanged words now seemed all too strange, unnatural. Distrust of Fisher's intentions grew stronger and stronger in the blond, creeping through his veins like poison. What did Sal really want? Revenge?

Yes, that might have been the most likely option.

- And how about your father?

- Huh? - He reacted almost immediately, wrinkling his eyebrows. He looked at the man, but - again - didn't notice anything unusual.

- I ask because I know he used to be a problem for you. - He began. - However, if this information is too personal for you then you don't have to answer.

He was silent for a long moment. Sally's gentleness and forbearance were overwhelming.

- We broke off contact. - He said finally. - Nothing huge.

- I understand. If you need to talk, you can call.

Travis nodded.

- You too, or something. - He added out of sheer politeness, which he had recently learned.

- Well, at my place is rather fine. My father recently got married. - He confessed.

- With whom?

- Larry's mother. Now we are brothers.

The accountant almost choked on his own saliva upon hearing this sentence. He coughed one time, then visibly grunted, announcing his statement.

- So, uh, you're a family now, right? - He repeated the earlier sentence in the form of a question, wanting to make sure. A witch and Sal brothers? That's kind of absurd.

- Yes. - This answer was certainly not one of the most pleasant.

- This is... interesting? I didn't expect.

- No wonder. - Fisher shrugged his shoulders. - If anyone had told me that a few years ago, I probably wouldn't have believed it.

- Has your relationship changed? - He asked.

- No, we continue to be friends. I have nothing against Larry. - He said. - I'm glad I met him.

For some reason Travis wanted Sal to start talking about him like that one day.

♡

¿One, two, or three? They passed the hours together in a rather dull and awkward conversation. Travis learned most of the usual things about Fisher's life. Among other things, what kind of music he listens to, what kind of relationships he has with others, his future plans and also the sheer fact that his cat, by some eighth wonder of the world, has learned to handle stickers. This fact was as absurd as the duct tape holding the prosthesis together.

The two parted ways when they decided it was late enough for the meeting to end. Phelps was given a list of Sal's business hours, as well as the detailed addresses of the two stores. He himself didn't know if he would ever stop by, but the word was out - he felt compelled to do so.

He entered his apartment building after entering the code and, as he traveled through the rotten-yellow stairwell, he lit one of the cigarettes he was slowly running out of. He inhaled the tobacco without much thought for the toxic smoke he was releasing into the building. There were some rules here, but Travis didn't even read them.

He turned the key of his apartment in the lock. When he opened the door - he went inside, repeating the action with the intention of closing it. Then and went to the balcony to smoke his addictive toy to the end.

Once again darkening his horizon with escaping grayish smoke, he noticed one uncomfortable thing.

Because his lonely heart was beating faster than usual today.