Well.

This was it.

The worst part.

The morning after.

Truthfully, it was ritualistic at this point. Sal knew all too well the response he would have upon seeing this mangled face juxtaposed to the remnants of sex littered all over his body. It was like a sort of punishment. For the he who was too happy, when he was so accustomed to a life riddled with misery. The dread, at least, felt real. He was used to it. And with how long he's been miserable, misery felt comfortable. Grounding even.

The tile of the bathroom floor always felt colder these mornings. The room was still moist with vapor from their shower the night before, clinging especially to the damp towel hanging by the sink. The chill of the air felt wet on his skin, and it licked at him like the loving tongue that had worshiped his body mere hours ago. He shuddered. Now it only felt gross.

A quick flick at the wall and fluorescence flooded the tiny space, filling the silence with a dull hum that sounded like a whispered dirge. If the bathroom's furnishings were sentient, Sal was certain there would be a chorus of screams as the light hit this disfigured face and his naked body. He hadn't bothered with his usual armor, his oversized sweatshirt and preferred face, as the layers would only get in the way.

He took a deep breath, his arms outstretched as he gripped the porcelain sink to stable himself. The mirror mounted above was a little streaky, with dried backsplash dotting the bottom edge. A little modest in size, only offering a portrait view at arm's length and a little more if he stood a bit further, but a reflective surface all the same.

He brought his good eye to meet his reflection's and began to trace his image in the mirror.

The unforgiving light created unpleasant contours across his heavily marred skin. The knots and gashes twisted across this face like unsightly, weedy roots. The flushed, empty socket that once cradled his right eye took on a more bluish tint, appearing more sunken and wrought.

He bit at his lip as anxiety gnawed at his skin. His teeth caught all but the corner separated by the cleft as he worried at them. It made him drool a bit, dampening the rough crust caked around split. His lips, he then noticed, were still a bit puffed, more flush. Kisses dotted along his pale flesh in obscene, rosy trails across Sal's scrawny figure. His eye followed, a map of everywhere love had been laid. From his ears and behind, nestled in his neck, a pitstop at his chest, and further down to their destination, where reddened grip marks joined fiercely at his hips and thighs.

A disgusting mural of gnarled scar tissue splattered with dried sweat, flaking cum, and budding bruises.

Ugly thing.

Wretched thing.

The familiar rush of revulsion was clawing up his spine. He averted his eye, drifting down to the glass cup sitting directly below. A piercing gaze shot through him, a false eye in the cup glowering lifelessly, unwaveringly. His false eye.

His grip on the sink tightened as he fought the urge to dig at his flesh. The sink refused to give, his knuckles turning white as his fingers began to tremble. Dread festered like a legion, his stomach churning with weighty unrest. Shame. Disgust. Seeking escape as it burned up his esophagus.

He needed this misery. To balance out the bliss.

To feel safe.

He felt like he needed to vomit. And it made him feel safe.

With a shaky step, Sal turned from the mirror. He twisted the brass knob in his grip, easing the bathroom door open.

But he wasn't expecting to see Larry on the other side, fist raised, ready to knock. His long hair was still in disarray, and he was equally as bare as Sal, down to just his boxers and socks.

They were both a little jarred, Larry taking a step back involuntarily. Sal flinched. He knew he wasn't the reason. Larry has never bat an eye at this face. But right now it felt like he did, and it hurt so good.

"O-Oh, hey?"

Larry seemed unsettled. Sal could tell. He knew something was off.

"Oh, 'morning, Lare." Sal mumbled, but then he straightened up. He didn't have his preferred face. He needed to keep his expressions together. For Larry. "Sorry, man. Did I wake you?"

"Nah, I think I was starting to come out of sleep when you got up anyway." Larry rubbed at his nose sheepishly. "You, uh… didn't come back for a minute. I thought you were just going for a quick piss, but uh…"

"Oh yeah, no. I'm fine, dude. Kinda stopped to admire the damage this time." Sal joked, leaning his head to the side to expose his neck in emphasis. Not a complete lie.

"Aaah, sorry…" Larry apologized, but the goofy gap-toothed smirk that followed said otherwise. "You just get me going, you know?"

Sal grinned back. Thankfully, it came naturally enough. "Oh, so it's my fault?"

"Definitely." Larry stepped closer, leaning his shoulder against the door's frame, his arms folding over his chest. His eyes traveled, drinking up the sight of his canvas and his dirty work with delight. "Just wear your hair down for the week."

Sal resisted the urge to shrink away from his gaze. Instead, he managed a huff, rolling his good eye. "Yeah, and I have to do that every time you get carried away. I'm pretty sure the guys are catching on."

"Then wear your hair down more often to throw them off? You look really good like this anyway..." Larry reached for Sal, his hands easily slipping to their favorite spot around the slender waist. Sal shivered at the touch, but not out of pleasure. He mentally kicked himself. Larry is not gross.

"Sal…" the playfulness had fallen out of Larry's voice. "You're shaking. Are… you sure you're okay?"

Shit. An excuse, fast. "Oh yeah, I think I might be kinda cold though." But that's not true. And Larry knew it wasn't the moment he pulled him to his chest, hugging him closely, securely, as if trying to hold the tremors steady with just his bare arms. To Sal, the heat shared between them felt like something. Somewhere between wonderful and terrible. Fantastic and frightening. He wanted to pull away. But also submit. Sal allowed this face to be pressed to Larry's chest, but didn't return the gesture. He arms hung lamely at his sides. Weighty unrest.

"Babe… you…." Larry hesitated, his tone low, heavy with concern. His hold on Sal tightened. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

No. Never.

Larry was the silver outlining the maelstrom of misfortune that had been his life thus far. How could Sal ever explain that the light of his life was also burning him to death? That he needed the pain? That he was terrified of being too happy? He would more eagerly keep on playing this game, slipping Larry little half-truths that burned like stomach acid on his tongue for as long as he can bear. This way, no one gets hurt.

Except for him.

Sal's chest tightened awfully. Pleasantly. "Not… really…. I'm sorry, Lare."

"It's okay. Whenever you're ready." Larry murmured into and kissed the top of his head. "Or never, if you don't want to."

"Thanks." The corners of Sal's lips, flush against Larry's broader chest, curled just a smidge. He sighed. He felt drained. "We… really should take a shower. We're totally gross."

"Did you want me to leave you to it or…" the question hung for a breath. "I mean, I could help you wash your hair? And stuff?"

Larry sounded hopeful, almost pleading. And Sal felt a stab as his skin crawled at the thought of indulging himself. He didn't want to hurt Larry. But maybe just a bit. For the misery.

"No…" Sal's hands finally moved, pushing at Larry's stomach. Larry's hold gave away easily as he stepped out of the embrace. He kept his eye trained on the floor, head down. He wasn't sure what expression this face would have right now, and he didn't want to risk alarming Larry any further. He hoped his bangs were long enough. "I think I just need a minute, if that's cool."

"Yeah, dude. Take your time. Just…. Let me know if you need anything, 'kay?" Larry stepped out of the doorway. "Guess I'll make us some breakfast?"

"Sounds good. Thanks, Larry."

Larry looked as though he had something more to say, but thank whatever gods may be that he held his tongue. Not to look too desperate, Sal waited for Larry to walk off before grabbing for door, yanking it shut. He made sure to do the lock.

The lingering moisture latched on to every much need breath he drew into his lungs, the air feeling sparse and the room suddenly uncomfortably cramped. With his back to the door, Sal crumpled to the bathroom floor, his knees bending at an angle only possible for someone as wiry as him. Cold tile greeted his bottom. He hugged his knees close. The makings of tears pricked at his good eye. He hushed them back.

He was disgusting and everything hurt.

But as long as he hurt everything could feel normal.

And he would be safe.

Author's Notes:

I feel like I got a little bit lazy with this in its final stages, but I'm really ready for this to be done. Somehow this transformed from a somewhat popular tumblr chatpost I have on tumblr to Sal dealing with body dysmorphia sprinkled with hints of cherophobia.

It was supposed to have a happy ending. Whoops.

Tbh I have very little control of what I write. I think I was just in the mood to write about an emotionally wrecked sadboy. But I also could just be projecting.