Work Text:
Sal groans, the back of his head pressed firmly against the cool metal wall. For once, the bumpy elevator ride is actually enjoyable. Like a massage. A pleasant distraction from his neurons re-enacting World War 2 in his head. The Allies— his frontal, temporal, occipital, and parietal lobes— versus the Axis powers— pons, medulla, and...
and...
Ugh.
Another round of pain fires across his temples, pounds just behind the hard acrylic of his eye and sends shrapnel straight into his brain. He grasps at nothing in particular, a fistful of air clutched in his hand as if he could strangle the world for cursing him with his current affliction.
A ding. The floor lurches. With gritted teeth, he steps out, half feeling his way through the basement and half relying on his memory, fully hoping that Lisa hasn't done any last-minute rearranging of the old furniture and tools she keeps here (though he'll find out soon enough if he winds up prosthetic-first on the floor.
Thankfully, he doesn't.)
There's no answer when he knocks on the door. His ears (head) are attuned enough to hear (feel) the heavy music coming from inside, muted by the walls and thick wood. Every rasp his knuckles make leaves him cringing as though he were driving an ice pick through his skull, and the longer he stands out there under the scathing glare of uncovered light-bulbs, the less terrible of an idea it actually sounds.
He's about to start looking around for do-it-yourself lobotomy supplies when the door pulls away from his palm.
"Oh- Sal. Thought I heard someone out here. What's up?" Larry greets, dark brows raised inquisitively.
Sal opens his mouth to answer, only to let out a shaky groan.
"You okay?"
"Head hurts," he croaks.
"Shit, man. Come on in." Larry frowns, his voice pinching with concern. He puts a sympathetic hand on Sal's back and ushers him inside.
Aside from Larry's room, the apartment's dimly lit. Nightlights brush the walls and floors in a pale blue, and in the living room, Sal collapses onto the couch. The springs creak beneath him, digging into his back.
Still, it's comforting. If only because it's so familiar to him now.
"How bad is it?" Larry asks.
"I've had worse... Dad's doing work calls, so it's been hard trying to sleep it off."
It's pretty bad, actually, but he already feels shitty enough for interrupting Larry's day. His friend's hair is up, and the streaks of color smeared across his shirt are as dead of a giveaway as any. And hadn't Larry just been complaining to him about how he hardly has time for his art anymore?
Besides, it's true enough that it's not the worst he's ever had. They've been a constant fixture in his life since his accident, and he's learned to deal with them over the years. A concoction of painkillers and a hot shower typically makes it bearable, and, if that doesn't help, he resorts to burying his face in a pelt of creamsicle fur until maybe he can manage to sleep it off.
Larry had been the one who suggested he come here during his episodes. Pitch dark and away from the rest of the tenants, it made sense. But Sal was hesitant about accepting Larry's offer. At that point, they practically just met, and Sal didn't want to make himself a nuisance to the first person he managed to befriend since moving into town.
Until the next one hit him like a train and sent Sal clamoring his way down to the basement floor, where Larry greeted him with blankets and a couch.
"You can crash in my room if you want. The mattress is way comfier than this old thing," Larry tells him, patting the cushions.
"Weren't you painting?"
"It's cool. You caught me just when I was finishing up for the day."
Lies. Though he already knows Larry will just brush him off. Instead, he blearily registers the dimmed surroundings. Larry had gone and turned the music off, and it's oddly quiet.
"Just you in here?" he asks.
Larry gives him a crooked smile. Metal flashes on his tongue as he speaks. "Just you n' me, baby," he purrs, jokingly of course, though Sal's heart still stutters, which he doesn't appreciate in general, but particularly not when it sets off a mirror throb in his skull.
"Mom's working on the plumbing at ol' Charley's place. Hopefully not anything too crazy. Dude gives me the heebie jeebies. Did he ever show you his collection? He's got this whole set of ponies— and, nothin' against collectors or anythin' cuz I totally get it— but I'm tellin' you this guy would kill for those things."
Sal offers a slight nod.
"Anyway, sorry," he apologizes, hushing. "You're probably not in the mood for a lotta talking, huh?"
"No, it's cool... I think I'll take you up on that offer to crash in your room, though."
Larry holds out his arm to help him when he attempts to get up. There's something about his patience as he guides Sal through the living room that has Sal's stomach twisting into frilly knots.
"So," Sal starts, "where's-"
"Detention." The answer comes bluntly. Larry opens the door and shuts the lights once Sal settles onto the bed.
He lies back. The sheets are a mess, and a stuffed bear is squished in the crevice between the bed and the wall. Sal frees it from its doom. The teddy's head droops. Wisps of black threads remain where its eyes should be, and it all looks a little sad. He places it on top of one of the pillows.
"What's it this time?" he asks.
"Another fight. Told him to cut that shit out if he wants to graduate with us, but it's a... work in progress."
Plastic tubes and the stiff wooden ends of brushes clatter as he cleans up the area around his canvas.
"Other dude totally deserved it, though. Said some shit about his mom that was fucked. He got him knocked out in one punch." A fond expression passes over his face, stretching into a smile. "Pretty fucking hot."
He throws the last of his paints in a drawer and shuts it with a thoughtfully quiet thud.
"Anyway. Feel free to spend as long as you need here. Me and Trav can crash on the couch tonight."
"Are you sure? I don't wanna invade your guys' space."
"You're not invading at all, Sal," he insists. He pulls out a room divider, shutting out the light that cascades down the stairway, and with that, shrouds them in complete darkness. There's a click. A lava lamp casts soft purple over his face. "You sure you don't need anything else? Meds? Water?"
"Water. Please."
He's breathing through the worst of it when Larry returns. The dark's a blessing and a curse— respite from the painful light, but at the same time left nothing but the pain to focus on.
"One water and one Vicks for Mr. Fisher," Larry presents, setting them down on the bedside table.
"Can you... would you mind doing it?"
He doesn't have to ask twice. Gently, Larry works on unstrapping Sal's prosthetic, his fingers tracing the leather to the back of his head. Sal's pulse races the entire time, though it's impossible to tell if it's from his headache or knowing Larry's seeing him.
It's nerve-racking. He's starting to regret the decision, even though he explicitly asked, and even though Larry had seen his face before - the first one to, actually (if you don't count the doctors and himself and his dad.
But he was the first who didn't flinch away.
And that was...
It's something that Sal keeps etched into the walls of his heart. A little reminder that he deserves decency.
Love, even.)
Like before, Larry's unfazed when the mask pulls away. Balm-coated fingers press against his temples and rub slow lines between his brows and up his forehead, and it's enough for Sal's worries to slip away.
"This good?"
God, he could moan.
"...Yeah. S'Good."
"Migraine cured?"
If it were that easy, Sal would've bought out Nockfell's entire stock months ago.
"I wish," he says.
"Well, I got some other things that might help if you're interested..." He gestures to a half-smoked joint in his ashtray.
They pass it between eachother. Sal's migraine comes in waves as Larry talks about all the nothing-in-particulars going around in town. He doesn't expect Sal to reply back, which is nice, and his voice is a soothing comfort, lulling him to sleep as the weed numbs his senses.
Some time later, he wakes, disoriented.
"Feeling better?"
Larry sits below him on the floor, etching into his sketchbook. The bar between his nosebridge and the ones at his eyebrows glimmer brightly in the lava lamp's light that he has beside him.
Sal rubs at his face (careful not to rub the remnants of the Vicks into his eyes— he's only ever made that mistake once). "Kinda," he murmurs, sight and speech warbled from his nap. His migraine, at least, has resolved, leaving only a dull ache in its wake. "How long was I out for?"
"Like, barely an hour, dude. Guess your body just needed to chillax," Larry says, pen twirling in his hand.
"Yeah, I guess," Sal sighs. "Thanks for the help."
"Any time. Like I said, mi casa es su casa, yeah?" He says in his warbly Spanish. He gives a beaming, toothy grin. "I wish you came over more, Sal. Seriously. It's fun hanging out with you."
"Dunno if Travis feels the same way."
"Nah. He likes you, too. He just puts up a prickly front."
Sal shrugs. He has a hard time believing that. While Sal and Larry get along just fine, Sal and Travis are…
Well… how had Larry put it?
A work in progress.
Which might be for the best, because it’s not really a secret that Sal thinks Travis is — as Larry had also put it — pretty fucking hot. Tall. Tanned skin. Dark curls dyed at the ends in a rotation of colors.
The piercings courtesy of Larry are just the icing on the cake.
Catastrophically, Larry had been the first to pick up on Sal's budding infatuation, and instead of being pissed as Sal had… actually— Sal wasn't really sure what he expected would happen— but he definitely hadn't imagined that Larry would kick back, smirk, and suggest,
'He's even hotter without those baggy clothes.'
Okay, and maybe — most likely— Larry meant to suggest something along the lines of Travis wearing something a little more form fitting like Larry wears — skinny jeans and shirts that actually fit him — but Sal's hormone-fueled head directed his thoughts elsewhere, and… yeah, him fumbling for excuses to leave the room is not a moment he's gonna live down any time soon.
Anyway. It’s never gonna happen. First of all, Sal's… well, Sal; and second of all, if Larry's totally smitten with Travis, Travis is ten times fucking worse. Territorial, might be the better word for it. The first time Sal and Larry had a sleepover, Travis made a show of sending his boyfriend over with hickeys to hell and back. (Leaving Sal a shit ton of explaining to do when they ran into Sal's dad the next morning.)
"Mind if I turn the light back on?" Larry asks.
"Nah, go ahead. I think I'll be good."
Larry flips on the switch. Sal hasn't been in here since they were first introduced, back before the start of senior year, and while that'd only been a few months ago, he's surprised to see how much has changed.
“You got a chair?” Sal asks, eyeing the reclined seat in the opposite corner.
It's similar to the those Sal's seen at places like the dentist's, but a little more simple and a lot more worn down. There's markings that almost look like they've been carved out by claws at the edges of the seat.
"Mom found it near the dump," Larry says.
“Outside… the apartments?”
“Yeah… I asked Rob if it'd been one of his old ones but he said it wasn't, so… kinda… don’t wanna think why anyone would have one of these at their place. I mean, guess I’m using it now, so, I'm not gonna question it too hard.” He looks at Sal, then, his eyes grazing over him with intrigue. “Why? You finally gonna let me pierce you?"
Sal protests. “Dude. You don’t have to give me a piercing for free.”
“It’s a gift! 'Sides, it’s not like I’m an expert or anything. Usually only get paid in people's homework or, y'know, favors."
A flush rises to Sal's ears. "Uh..."
"Like doing chores for me an' stuff," Larry laughs, giving Sal a teasing nudge. "Get yer mind outta the gutter, Sally Face."
“That’s so unfair, dude. You waggled your brows and everything.”
He laughs again, moving across the room and taking a seat on his chair, spinning dramatically to face Sal. He's sitting backwards, his arms crossed over the back. “So. What about it?”
It's tempting.
He doesn't really understand Larry's enthusiasm about it, though. Larry's easily got a line out the door of people wanting a piercing from him (most of it has to do with Larry being one of the two people in town who actually has more than a thumb tack and blind optimism when it comes to supplies and experience).
"I didn’t really think about what I’d get…”
Larry hums, then pokes the tip of his tongue through the gap in his teeth, looking like he's deep in thought. "There's something we could try. If you're up for it. People say it can help with headaches."
"A piercing?"
"Yeah. Read about it in one of Rob's magazines, and I figured- well, I thought it'd be something you'd be interested in. Did one on Travis a little while ago. He doesn't really get headaches like yours, though, so he can't really vouch for that."
"Does it actually work?"
A shrug. "Could be. Could also just be total horse shit and like a placebo thing."
"Like the Vicks," Sal thinks aloud.
"What? Vicks is totally legit, dude."
"Todd says it's not."
"And what's Todd got to say about daith piercings?"
"I dunno. I never even heard about it before now, but..."
"... but?" Larry pushes.
"...I'm willing to try anything at this point."
Larry claps his hands.
“Great! And if it doesn’t, well, you’ll still come out of it with a banger piercing an' ten times hotter for it!"
Ten times zero is still zero, but Sal figures Larry's had enough of his complaining for today. He takes a seat on the chair. The cushioning is comfortable enough, even if the mystery marks are disconcerting.
"Jus' lay back here for now," he instructs. "You good with me turning this lamp on here?"
Sal nods, though he winces when it flickers brightly above him, seering into his retina.
It really is like being at the dentist's.
"Which side are you gonna do?" he asks.
"Which side hurts the most when you get your headaches?"
"The... right one. The side my prosthetic eye's on."
“Roger that.” Larry wheels around, gathering his supplies. "Here, turn like this. Facing away from me… You nervous?”
"Never got pierced by anyone before," Sal admits. "The last time was when my mom brought me to the mall."
Larry looks impressed. "She let you get your seconds, too?"
"My what?"
"These."
Larry rubs his other lobe piercing with a gloved finger.
"Ah- uh." He stammers at the feathery touch. "No. I did those myself."
“No shit!” Larry exclaims. "I’ll make sure to keep you in mind if me n' Rob ever open up shop."
He laughs dimly. "Thanks. Maybe I’ll take you up on that when everything else falls through."
It's the wrong thing to say. Sal can tell when Larry goes all quiet.
"What makes you think that?" Larry asks, sorting through his equipment.
"Nothing," Sal sighs.
The silence is deafening, and it seems like Larry's trying to take the time to think about what to say instead of blurting out the first thing that comes to mind like he often does, which just kind of makes Sal feel awful, because the last thing he wants is Larry walking eggshells around him.
"Anyone who gives you shit for how you look isn't worth your time. You don't even- you're... cool Sal. And hot."
"Stop," Sal spits it out before he can help himself. "Stop being facetious."
"Whatever that means, man. I woulda hoped you trusted be by now." He sounds hurt, genuinely (another point in the shit bin for Sal), but moves on to picking through his collection of jewelry, holding up a horse-shoe looking hoop for Sal to inspect. "This good?" He asks.
"Uh... yeah. I don't really know what looks best for stuff like that, honestly, but..." He pauses, catching up with his breath. "I trust you. Really."
Larry beams.
"Right," he continues, then instructs Sal to lay back down and cleans the inside of his ear. "You ready?"
Sal nods.
It takes only a few seconds for Larry to line up the needle, and then Larry's telling him to breathe in and out, and he hears more than feels it pierce through him.
"All's left is putting the jewelry in, alright?"
He counts down, and at the end of one, Sal feels a sting as the metal hoop's pushed through, then some more pressure as Larry secures the jewelry.
"Alrighty— all done," Larry takes off his gloves and takes a moment to admire his work. "Damn, Sally. You took that real well. You should come by more often," he praises.
"You sweet talk all your clients like that?"
"Nah. Just the ones I like." Larry winks lamely at him.
Heat rises to Sal's face, and he's a little mortified realizing that Larry can actually see him flushing this time, under the bright lights and all, so he gets up and puts his prosthetic back on, tying his hair back up into his usual style.
"How's it look with everything?" Sal asks.
"Looks good! Though, gotta say I'm pretty biased," Larry says. "Feelin' alright?"
"Yeah. It's weird. Feels throbby."
Larry nods. "That's normal. Cartilage piercings are usually more intense than lobes. We can switch the jewelry out to somethin' fancier once it heals, probably a year or so. Just make sure to clean it out with saline if it gets nasty. And after that… maybe a conch. Helix. World's your oyster."
"More like your oyster," Sal teases.
"What can I say? I'm a sucker for a blank canvas." He crosses his arms behind his head, lazing back on his chair. “Wanna stick around? Sanity’s Fall’s new EP came out yesterday and someone happened to snag a copy at the store.”
"Maybe another time. I should probably head back," Sal says. "Dad should be finishing work and I've got that project due…"
And, detention just finished up, and Sal's doesn't want to add more rain to anyone's parade.
"Alright dude. Just remember you're welcome to hang out anytime. Don't be a stranger, yeah?" he says, only looking a little disappointed.
He gives Sal a hug when he leaves, and when Sal steps into the elevator, the heat throbbing in his ear has spread along his face and down his neck.