Operation Sal | Sally Face x Travis Phelps

11

   Travis hadn't answered a single text all weekend, and that was saying something because Sal had texted him many, many times, about pretty much anything and everything he could think of.

   He had asked about Travis's favorite things and least favorite things, sent several good morning and good night messages on both days, and talked about his afternoons, his hobbies, the stuff he liked to do, and the stuff he didn't like to do.

   Even so, Travis had not responded once.

Sal, in the midst of his anxiety, briefly wondered if he was being purposefully ignored. It wasn't impossible, but Travis had been so different lately. He wouldn't just pretend he didn't exist, right?

The more illogical, anxious voices in his head told him that something was wrong, that Travis was sick or hurt, or worse, and while he knew that probably wasn't the case, he was uneasy anyway.

He couldn't believe how quickly Travis had carved a way into his thoughts, how much he suddenly enjoyed his company, how much he really did like him.

The Travis that had emerged from his shell of resentment and anger was shy, anxious, quiet, and unmistakably serious.

Sal wondered just how much went unspoken in his head.

When he arrived at class on Monday, he was half expecting not to see Travis sitting there. His brain had convinced him that the blonde had fled the country or gotten hit by a car or something. He was glad to see that he was mistaken.

As Sal walked into Algebra, Travis was already sitting at his desk, head dipped down, his lanky arms loosely wrapped around himself. He was wearing an oversized long-sleeved shirt, his cross dangling as he leaned forward slightly.

"Cold?" Sal smiled, sitting beside him.

      "No," Travis said firmly and shook his head, fingers twitching against his elbow at the sound of the blue-haired boy's voice.

He narrowed his eyes, suddenly noticing how upset his deskmate looked, head hung, gaze dim and undirected. "Are you okay?" He asked, studying him. "I texted you, but you didn't answer."

Travis didn't spare him a glance, stare still focused down at his desk, "I know," he mumbled.

Sal frowned and reached out to put a friendly palm on his shoulder but the blonde leaned away from his touch ever so slightly.

The blue-haired boy hesitated, lowering his hand.

Travis sighed and twisted his shoe against the floor, holding himself a little tighter.

"Everything alright?" Sal asked softly, dipping his head to get a better look at him. "Do you need to go to guidance, or-"

"No," He said quickly, shaking his head. "I'm okay. Just tired."

   Even so, when he turned his body to reach down into his bag, pulling out his notebook, Sal's gaze fixated on his jaw, where a dark red-purple splotch was brushed over his skin. 

  Oh.

   Something must have happened. He swallowed and nodded, mumbling a faint "okay", knowing that Travis would not open up easily and that it wasn't appropriate to persistently meddle in his problems, especially in the middle of class.

   The disappointment he had over Travis not texting him during the weekend vanished all at once and he was left with a sinking, twisting, gutteral feeling of guilt in his chest, knowing that things were not as simple as he had once thought.

   Sal's understanding of Kenneth Phelps was vague, to say the least. He'd never met the guy or even seen him for that matter, but he'd heard things over the years.