•The Note• {Travis x Sal}

12

Travis POV:

Travis stretched his arms out as far as he could as he walked into the kitchen and opened the cabinet, looking for the pancake mix. "Hey, Sal?" Travis asked, looking back at Sal who was sitting on the couch.

"Yeah?" Sal didn't turn his head to look but showed that he was paying semi-attention—though his attention was mostly on the crime show blaring on the TV.

"Do you have pancake mix?" Travis closed the cabinet he had previously looked in, waiting for a response. "Uhh, yeah it's in the cabinet above the microwave."

"Gotcha."

Sal POV:

Sal yawned heavily as he switched channels on the TV, listening to Travis cook in the background. He'd never actually had somebody cook for him, and the thought of it warmed his cheeks.

Sal tried to recall the last time someone had put in the effort to cook a meal for him but only dragged as far back to his mom—before the incident.

He didn't get emotional about her anymore, memories of her faded to the picnic, the dog, and his face.

"Sal," Sal would recall her voice, smooth and gentle as she'd call him into the kitchen. Her voice lulled him out of his room, almost involuntarily, and to the dining room table. He'd sit down and she'd place a large plate with pink roses imprinted on the rims down in front of him.

"Here's your pancakes, Sal." She'd say again as he looked down at the plate, and two fluffy, light, and deliciously airy pancakes sat in front of him. Syrup would ooze down the sides and over the top, and a single square of butter would melt slowly and dispute a beyond-heavenly smell.

Sal soon realized that his imagination of recalled memories happened to sync with reality, as he blinked and viewed the large plate with pink roses imprinted on the rims in front of him.

Travis sat adjacent to him, not paying much attention to Sal or his surroundings—his attention span was only wide enough for the mindless TV show.

Sal stared at the pancakes, and almost instantly a melancholy feeling surged through his chest—an ache in a way. He felt a burn seize his nose, or what was left of it, and tears prick the corners of his eyes.

He wasn't one to cry over pancakes, but it seemed the revival of hiraeth—a foreign feeling he wasn't used to feeling, maybe shoving the allowance of grief or mourning so far away that a simple pancake, a simple remembrance of his mother was enough to break him.

"Sal?" Travis mumbled, forcing Sal to look upright. "Are you crying?" Sal cocked an eyebrow but suddenly felt the warmth of tears oozing behind his mask against the plastic and his cheeks.

"Shit, dude—I didn't even notice. Sorry—" Sal unbuckled the bottom of his mask and used his sleeve to wipe his face. "What's wrong?"

"I dunno, I guess I just haven't had anybody cook for me in a while," Sal said, laughing it off casually but the pain still rang in his throat and echoed through a voice crack.

Travis had a nonchalant look on his face, dismissal against Sal's words. "I have a feeling that's not all."

Sal shrugged and leaned against the couch. "Where'd you even find this plate, dude?" Sal asked, tracing his finger over the rim.

"It was on the upper shelf where the plates were, I assumed I'd use those instead of the paper plates." Travis nodded towards the cupboard, as to point.

Sal stayed quiet and lifted his mask once more, but this time to take a bite of the pancake—which was now only slightly warm, but it didn't bother Sal much.