â Sally Face : one shot INFINITY ON HIGH
â summary : why do the people from different worlds ever interact? Sal thinks it is weird and misses outÂ
â pairing : Sal Fisher x Reader
â word count : 4.3K
â author note : ermâŠ. Read at you own risk. the ending was a little rushed but iâll probably come back. I gotta just post stuff or else itâll stay in my drafts forever
TW: Sal is a little (very) self deprecating
He sometimes wonders if it was even worth it No. Thatâs not right. That sounds mean, even in his own head.
Itâs more like the timeline is fuzzy. when he flips back through his memories, the order of things doesnât quite line up the way he expects. One minute itâs just him, Larry, Ash, Todd the usual orbit and the next, youâre there. Albeit a little annoying, being in this town kinda left the idea of new people the least scary object here.
Before there was an us in the group. The you were untouchable in that abstract, high school way. The whole world seemed to really like you in a blink of an eye. Teachers liked you. People in the halls seemed to bend over backwards to get your attention. It really was unfair to see how you just floated amongst the different tables every lunch. Sal clocked you the way he clocked everything, though never thought there would be a day of interacting, never really expecting your path to cross his in any real way.
After there was you, youâre on the floor of Larryâs room, back against the beanbag, flipping through records and going on how he needs to expand the collection.
The shock of it still lingers. Larry had vouched for you, which mattered more than Sal would ever admit. Larry didnât do shitty people. That much he has been grateful since the beginning of his time here. When Sal had squinted at him one afternoon mask tilted just a little and asked, âYouâre sure?â Larry had looked genuinely offended.
âDude,â he said, hand over his heart like Sal had accused him of a crime. âTheyâre cool. Like, actually cool. Been friends for a while.â A while was vague, but Larryâs sincerity wasnât. Sometimes curses him for how he always makes sincerity such a non scary thing to him. So Sal let the idea sit. Let you sit at the edge of his awareness.
Still, it was weird at first. You didnât fit the shape heâd made for the group in his head. Too bright. Too confident. Too⊠normal. Which is such a horrible take. He often reflects on himself as to why he would think that. Especially in a group full of outcasts, wouldn't it be more accepting to just welcome you?Â
It was actually at a show he went with the gang that changed it up for him. It was one of those cramped venues that smelled like spilled beer, a funny thought he likes to think about is, in a room full of people just here to enjoy moshing and all that fun stuff it never smelled like BO. Sal had gone mostly out of habit Larry and Ash dragging him along, Todd trailing behind.
The pit had formed early, bodies slamming together in a messy, beautiful dream. Sal hung near the edge, hoodie sleeves tugged down, watching the way people moved like a living thing. He liked observing. Always had.Â
Thatâs when he saw you. You were in the pit. Hair stuck to your face with sweat, grin sharp and unrepentant as you shoved back when someone knocked into you. You moved like you knew exactly where your happiness was, the way you were shoving people was such a funny sight to him. Alive in a way Sal didnât usually associate with people who had everything going for them.
For a second, he genuinely wondered if he was wrong. If it was someone else who just looked like you. The only thing to prove otherwise was the pause in the music at the end of the song and the sound of your laugh carrying out.Â
Sal blinked. Larry saw it too. He elbowed Sal in the ribs, eyes wide with recognition and delight. âYo,â he shouted, which caused you to look his way. Immediately you started smiling so hard and Larry fully jumped into the mosh with the lack of music. Gathering a few offputting looks from the crowd.Â
Sal didnât answer. The music started up again and he just watched as you got bumped hard, stumbled, you grabbed the nearest strangerâs shoulders and shoved back, laughing like it was the best thing that had happened all week.
Something shifted. Later between sets, when the pit dissolved into panting bodies and ringing ears you ended up near him, hands on your knees, catching your breath. You looked up and met his eyes like it was the most natural thing in the world.
âHey,â you said, easy. Familiar. Like you werenât crossing some invisible boundary.
Up close, you didnât feel so untouchable. Just warm and a little flushed, eyeliner smudged at the corners. You asked if heâd liked the band. He said yeah, probably too quietly. You leaned in anyway to hear him better, unbothered by the barrier between you both, by the silence he carried with him.
When Larry bounded over and threw an arm around your shoulders like it was nothing, Sal felt something settle into place.
So thatâs when it really startedâŠ
After that, the timeline blurs for a different reason. itâs hard to imagine the group without you. You argue with Todd about music theory. You steal Ashâs jackets. You sit beside Sal in companionable silence, never demanding more than he has to give. Sometimes he still catches himself wondering how it happened. How someone like you ended up here, with them.
Sal had been staring at the ceiling for a while counting the tiny cracks in the paint, letting his thoughts loop and tangle the way they always did when the room was quiet enough.
He barely registered when you shifted closer. âYou want to hear my favourite Fall Out Boy song?â
Your voice cuts in clean, sudden, close too close and Sal startles just a little, chin dipping as he looks down. Youâre laying lengthwise on the couch now, head resting comfortably on his legs like youâd done it a hundred times before. One arm draped across your stomach, the other holding your iPod above your face, thumb already scrolling with purpose.
ââŠUh,â he says, blinking once. âI think Iâve heard all of their songs, but Iâll bite.â he laughs out because in what universe does he not know a fall out boy song.
You scoff immediately. âWhat the fuck ever, let me have my moment.â Your thumb flies faster over the click wheel, brows furrowed in concentration going through the process of picking a song.
Sal lets out a quiet laugh, the sound caught halfway in his throat. âDidnât I just say that IÂ would bite?â he squeaks out.
You hum victoriously the second you find it, a pleased little sound that makes his chest feel weirdly warm. You sit up abruptly, shifting your weight and in the process leaning over him, knee pressing into the couch on the side of his thigh, shoulder brushing his chest.
âBang the Doldrums,â you announce like youâre revealing classified information. âThis song actually fucks me up. Like, it is so good.â
He doesnât hesitate. âI canât fight you on that.â he really truly cant. It is a good ass song.Â
You snap your head toward him. âNo, you canât. But listen listen â You scrub ahead in the track with aggressive precision. âThe bridge is actually evil.â
You hit play. Sal relaxes back into the couch, one hand resting loosely by his side as the familiar melody floods his ears through the tiny shared speaker. He listens not just to the song, but to you. The way your body subtly sways, the way your lips mouth along to words you clearly know by heart.
And I cast a spell over the west to make you think of me,
The same way I think of youÂ
This is a love song in my own way.
You pause the song abruptly and clutch your chest like youâve been shot, jaw dropping in exaggerated agony. âAre you KIDDING me?â
Sal snorts before he can stop himself. âHis voice is pretty good.â
Your hand immediately flies out and lands flat on his chest, palm warm through his shirt. âThat is not the point.â
He freezes for a second then, almost without thinking, his hand shifts. He settles it at your waist, fingers resting there like they belong. Like theyâve always belonged. You donât comment on it. You just keep talking. It shouldn't, you both were already so close.
âLike, yeah, Patrick Stump sounds insane, obviously,â you say, words tumbling out faster now. âBut the meaning is crazy. Because what do you mean Pete couldnât have stayed with the person he wanted, so when he was on tour away from them he was, like, comforted by the idea of haunting them? Like, man, can I be that petty?â
Sal hums thoughtfully. âJust say Mikey Way.â
You gasp so loud it startles him. âYOU KNOW ABOUT IT?!â
He grins under his mask. âGirl, Iâm not stupid.â
You stare at him for a second, eyes wide, then break into the most delighted smile heâs seen all day. âSal. Oh my god. I think this is the time that I propose.â
He laughs, shoulders shaking as your eyes glimmer with pure joy, this is a perfect example of loving the everliving fuck out of Larry for gifting him an amazing bestfriend sitting right here.
âPretty sure I would like it better if you gave me a little more incentive to want to say yes,â he says softly.
âToo bad,â you reply immediately, flopping back down so your head lands on his legs again. âWeâre married now. Keep up.â
Sal lets out a breath he didnât realize he was holding when you settle back onto his legs, the familiar weight grounding in a way nothing else ever really does. The song keeps playing, tinny and warm from the iPod speaker, and he stares back up at the ceiling again but this time the cracks donât matter. They blur together, background noise to the way your fingers absentmindedly tap against your stomach in time with the beat. He shifts slightly, just enough to be more comfortable, knees adjusting beneath your head. You make a small sound at the movement. If sal could go fight god in every universe to have exactly what he has with you right now then he would not even think twice to do it.
Sal goes quiet after that.
Youâre still sprawled across him, warm and real, the faint buzz of the song vibrating through the couch cushions and into his bones. Your hair brushes his knee every time you shift, like it doesnât even occur to you that this is something that could mean anything. Why does causal touches like this between you and everyone else. Though sometimes he think he has been put in the best friend zone.Â
Thatâs the problem, he thinks. Heâs never been sure if you know. If youâve ever known.
Sometimes he wonders if all of this your head on his legs, your hand on his chest earlier, the way you talk at him like heâs the only one in the room is just how you are. If itâs background noise to you. Friendly. Easy. Unloaded with intention, unloaded without? You do this with everyone, right? You lean in. You laugh. You choose people without overthinking it.
Sal doesnât have that luxury. For him, everything feels deliberate. Every time he lets his hand settle at your waist or doesnât immediately pull away when you touch him, it feels like stepping over a line only he can see. A line youâve never acknowledged because, to you, it probably doesnât exist.
What if you donât notice the way his chest tightens when you say his name?
Or how he replays conversations later, dissecting every laugh, every brush of skin, wondering if it meant something or if he just wanted it to. Heâs known you for years now. Long enough that the crush shouldâve burned out. Long enough that this stupid, persistent hope shouldâve learned better. And yet here it is. Still sitting in his ribs, still convincing him that maybe this time, youâll look at him differently.
But then he remembers how people look at you.
The way rooms tilt toward you. The way strangers light up like theyâve been waiting for you specifically. Youâre cool without trying, confident without being cruel, the kind of person who belongs everywhere they go. You talk about music like youâre in on some secret, wear your opinions like armor, and somehow make everyone feel like theyâre allowed to exist a little louder around you.
When has there ever been a place for Sal Fisher at the table? Heâs a guy who hides behind a mask and a hoodie. Who fades into corners. Who needs time to speak and even more time to be understood. He canât imagine you seeing him the way he sees you not really. Not with that same gravity. Not with that same ache.
Thereâs still a disconnect, even after all this time. He doesnât know if youâre oblivious, or just kind, or choosing not to see it because it would complicate things. Maybe itâs safer for you this way. Sal has blamed every step that gets to your front door. It seems the higher he gets, the steps kept building, swallowing him alive.Â
Sal swallows he thinks quietly, almost fondly that maybe you really are too cool for him. Then again, is it even possible to look at Sal fisher without it being platonic? .
It happens later the inevitable drift that everyone swears wonât happen to them.
The apartment is too quiet for a place that used to be loud. Posters peel slightly at the corners, the air stale with dust and old incense. Sal stands in the narrow hallway, shoulder pressed lightly against the wall, air cool against his skin. He hadnât meant to eavesdrop. Heâd just been passing through on his way to grab his jacket, on his way to nowhere in particular when your voice stopped him cold.
Itâs small. Nothing like the way you usually sound. Your eyes have been burning for who knows how long, and he can hear it in the way your words wobble. Sal freezes, heart stuttering in his chest. He stays still, breath shallow, like moving might shatter something fragile.
âItâs not that bad,â Ash says, trying to sound steady. âYou said your whole time in high school you wanted to escape this place.â
âSee yeah,â you reply, forcing a laugh that doesnât quite land. âBecause I had so much energy all the time.â
He can picture it without seeing you. The way you shrug when you joke through pain. The way you deflect when things get too real.
âSeriously,â Ash continues, quieter now. âYouâll be alright. Itâs not like youâre the only one thatâs going to miss everyone.â
Thereâs a pause. Salâs fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeves.
âI know that,â you say. âI just feel like Iâve missed out on so much already. I canât stand not being around all of you all the time.â
Something inside him drops.
Leaving.
All of you.
Not being around.
The words echo, ricocheting through his skull until they blur together into something painful and formless. He leans harder into the wall, grounding himself, but it doesnât help. It feels like the floor has tilted and heâs scrambling to find something solid to grab onto.
Ash is leaving.
Youâre leaving.
Different directions, different lives, different futures that donât automatically include him. Sal stays there long after the conversation fades into quiet sniffles and muffled movement. He doesnât know how long long enough that his legs start to ache, long enough that the house seems to exhale around him. When he finally moves, itâs slow, deliberate, like heâs afraid the sound of his footsteps might make this real.
He ends up outside without really remembering how.
The evening air is cold, sharp in his lungs. The sky is dimming into that bruised purple blue, streetlights flickering on one by one. He sits on the front steps, elbows on his knees, head bowed. The mask feels heavier than usual, like itâs pressing in on him instead of protecting him.
Heâd always known this would happen. Of course he did. People like you didnât stay. People like Ash didnât either. They had momentum. Dreams. Plans that stretched beyond this town, beyond late night hangouts.
Still knowing doesnât make it hurt less.
He thinks about all the things he never said. All the moments he assumed heâd have more time for. He thought proximity meant permanence. That as long as you were there, the feeling could stay suspended, untouched by reality. Now it feels stupid.
His chest tightens, breath catching uncomfortably behind the mask. He presses a hand flat over his sternum like he can physically hold everything in place. The idea of you not being a constant of your laugh not bleeding through walls, of your presence becoming something he has to remember instead of rely on makes his stomach twist.
What scares him most isnât just missing you. Itâs the thought that youâll go on and become even more yourself more confident, more brilliant, more untouchable and heâll stay exactly where he is. Watching from a distance. Wondering if he ever meant as much to you as you meant to him.
He wonders if youâll think of him at all. The street is quiet. Somewhere inside, a door closes softly. Life continues, indifferent and relentless. Sal stays on the steps until the air turns cold enough to bite, until the sky goes fully dark. He doesnât cry not really. But something fractures anyway. Something small and essential. Eventually, time takes them all apart. Sal sits there alone, realizing far too late that some worlds donât end in explosions.
Nockfell looks smaller than you remember.
Not physically no buildings have shrunk, no streets folded in on themselves. the town has exhaled and never quite drawn another breath. The bus pulls away behind you with a tired hiss, leaving you standing there with your bag slung over one shoulder and a knot already forming in your chest.
The air smells wrong. You came back because you needed answers. Because the letters stopped getting returned. Because silence can only stretch so far before it snaps.
You didnât know the full story only fragments that filtered through the news, through frantic phone calls, through rumors that sounded too unreal to be true. A cult. Murders. A fire. Arrests. Names whispered like curses. Salâs name always mentioned last, like people were afraid of it.
After he was put in jail, you never got to see him again.
Not because you didnât try.
You wrote letters instead. Dozens of them. Rambling, messy, full of things you never said when you were younger because you thought you had time. You told him about where you were living now. About the music you still listened to and all the music that you had gotten to perform all around the world in the past five years. About how sometimes a song would come on and youâd think, heâd love this, and it would hit you out of nowhere.
You never knew if he read them. But you sent them anyway.
The walk through your old neighborhood is extremely grim. There's just silence. You talk to people. Neighbors. Strangers who recognize your face after a second too long. Their expressions shift the moment you mention Sal. Pity comes first. Then discomfort. Then that awful look like theyâre deciding whether you deserve the truth or protection from it.
Finally, someone says it.
âHe⊠didnât make it.â
The words donât land right away. You blink. Once. Twice. Your brain scrambles for context, for clarification. Didnât make it where? Didnât make it through what?
âWhat?â you ask, voice barely there.
The woman swallows. âSal Fisher. He died. A while ago now.â
âNo,â you say immediately, too fast. âNo, thatâs not possible. I was writing to him. I â Your throat closes. âHe was alive.â
She looks at you with something like regret. âIâm sorry. He was executed.â
Executed. The word is sharp. Final. It carves straight through you.
Your bag slips from your shoulder and hits the floor with a dull thud, but you donât feel it. You donât feel anything except the roaring in your ears, the sudden overwhelming pressure behind your eyes. Your chest tightens like itâs caving in on itself.
âNo,â you whisper. âNo, no, no â
You think of the letters. Every single one. The hope threaded through them. The assumption that one day youâd sit across from him again, awkward and quiet, making jokes around everything you didnât know how to say. You think of how he never wrote back. Your knees buckle. You donât remember sliding down the wall, only that the floor is cold and your hands are shaking so badly you have to curl them into fists just to keep them still. Your breath comes in broken, uneven pulls, like your body forgot how to do this automatically.
âHe didnât do it,â you choke out, to no one in particular. âHe wouldnât. He couldnât â
Later much later you find the place where they buried him.The sky is gray, oppressive, like itâs pressing down on you just to see if youâll break. Your legs feel hollow as you stand in front of the marker, reading his name over and over again like repetition might change something.
The sound that leaves you isnât pretty. Itâs raw and ugly and pulled from somewhere deep in your chest, a sob that feels like it might tear you apart from the inside. Your hands claw at the dirt, fingers digging into the cold earth like you could reach him if you just tried hard enough.
âIâm sorry,â you gasp. âIâm so sorry I shouldâve been here. I shouldâve done something. I shouldâve â
Your words dissolve into tears.
You tell him about the letters. About how you never stopped thinking about him. About how you always believed always that heâd survive, because Sal had always been quieter than the world but stronger than people realized.
âI didnât know,â you whisper hoarsely. âI swear I didnât know.â
The wind moves through the trees, soft and indifferent. You stay there until your throat aches and your eyes burn, until grief settles into something heavy and constant instead of sharp and blinding. When you finally press your forehead to the ground, itâs not because youâve run out of tears itâs because reality has finally set in.
You didnât just lose him once. All the times there were things you wanted too but didn't say. You walk the familiar path on instinct, feet crunching softly against gravel and damp leaves. The air is cool enough to sting your lungs, the sky stretched thin and pale above the water.
The lake doesnât look any different from when you were younger. The surface ripples gently, catching light in dull silver flashes. You remember sitting here once, years ago, throwing pebbles into the water and arguing about whatever, about nothing at all. Sal had been quiet then too, mask tipped slightly as he watched the water instead of you.
You stop at the edge and stare.
Your hands are shoved deep into your pockets, fingers curled tight, knuckles aching. The grief has settled into something heavier now less sharp, more suffocating. Like itâs found a permanent place in your chest and decided to stay.
âItâs not fair,â you say out loud.
Your voice sounds wrong in the open air. Too small.
You shake your head, a bitter laugh escaping before you can stop it. âItâs really not fair, Sal.â
The water laps gently against the shore. No answer. Of course not. You pace a few steps, then stop again, frustration bubbling up, pressing against your ribs. âYou haunted my mind for years, you know that?â you mutter, voice breaking just slightly. âEvery stupid quiet moment. I couldnât even sit in silence without thinking about you.â
You kick a small stone into the lake and watch it skip once, twice, then sink.
âI missed you when you were alive,â you continue, words spilling out now that youâve started. âI missed you when you were just⊠far away. When I thought one day Iâd see you again and it would all make sense.â
âAnd now I have to miss you like this?â
You press a hand to your chest, breathing hard, like the ache might become manageable if you can just acknowledge it. Your eyes burn again, tears threatening but not quite falling.
âI didnât even get to choose this,â you whisper. âI didnât get to say goodbye. I didnât get to ask if you ever â Your voice falters, and you swallow the rest of the sentence down. Some questions are too painful to finish.
The wind picks up, brushing past you, stirring the surface of the water into restless ripples. For a second just one you almost imagine itâs him. Standing beside you. Quiet. Present. The way he always was. It makes your chest ache worse.
âYou were supposed to be a âwhat if,ââ you say softly. âNot a âwhat now.ââ
You sink down onto the old bench near the shore, shoulders slumping. Staring out at the lake feels like staring into something endless, something that doesnât care how much youâve lost.
âI donât know how to do this,â you admit to the water, to the memory of him, to the space where he should be. âMissing you was already hard. But missing you in a way thatâs never going to end?â
Your voice breaks fully this time.
âThatâs just cruel.â
