Scent of Love (Scomiche fanfiction)

The calm before the storm

Silence.

Not a single sound could be heard since the door had clicked shut, safe for the drum beat of his heart, so distinct to his ears. Mitch didn't know how much time passed since Scott had let himself in. It must have been a few minutes at the most, but it felt like lifetimes. He didn't think Scott had moved at all as no shuffling could be heard, nor did the floorboards give a single creak. He couldn't be sure, though, as he was standing still himself, back turned to the other man.

He wanted to speak. He wanted to shout. He wanted to curse at Scott and tell him to get the hell out of his apartment, his life, his world. He could barely keep himself upright, though, and getting out actual words would have required a lot more effort than he was already putting into forcing himself not to collapse to the floor, all numb and limp. Breathing was already challenging enough.

And then a creak. A silent one, hardly audible, as if reflecting the hesitation of the one who produced it. Another one followed – louder, bolder. The third one was almost careless and overwhelming, like it was already obvious there would be no repercussions, and there was nothing to be scared of. Mitch wanted to turn around, alarmed to the point of getting nauseous, but his muscles refused to cooperate. Slightly stooped, he braced himself for whatever was coming. Scott was getting closer and closer by the second, he could tell by the sound of the footsteps, even if he could hardly hear his feet padding against the wood floor over the sound of his own heartbeat.

He flinched when a hand was gently placed on his shoulder. Breathing shallow, he clenched his fists and closed his eyes, willing himself to shut down his senses. He could feel the warmth radiating from Scott's hand and spreading all over his body, the touch oddly consoling, yet disturbing at the same time, but it wasn't until Scott's breath fanned over the skin of his neck like a warm waft of summer breeze that he let out a helpless whimper.

He was lonely. He had no one. No lifeline, no anchor. He'd been abandoned, deserted, discarded like a piece of trash. That's what he was. A dirty piece of trash no one had ever wanted. An outcast.

A little, reassuring squeeze was applied to his shoulder as Scott let his grip tighten just so, and Mitch bit down on the inside oh his cheek, praying to whatever deity there was for enough strength to hold back the tears. He'd been doing a good job of not crying until now, there was no reason why he had to fall apart before Scott's eyes. Or maybe there was. Maybe Scott was the reason.

He heard the man behind him draw a shaky breath as if in preparation for what he wanted to say, but soon the breath was released and no words came out. Mitch was more than grateful that the silence continued, yet a pang of unfounded disappointment he felt at the same time was difficult to ignore. Dealing with that ever-present inner conflict was inevitably going to rob him of all his sanity.

"Go away."

It was said in a whisper and sounded more like a desperate plea than an order. Scott didn't say anything in reply, nor did he move his hand from where it was squeezing Mitch's shoulder. The brunette let his head drop to his chest in resignation. One more try, and he'd give up being strong.

"Get the fuck out."

He had meant to shout it out, but it came out as a murmur, his voice betraying him yet again. Scott's hand left his shoulder to rub down his upper arm in what the boy thought was a gesture of comfort, or a pitiful attempt at that. Even if it was probably only out of courtesy, it still did the trick. He couldn't take it anymore.

"Get out!" he cried, turning around abruptly to throw his arms around the other man's torso. "Get out, get the fuck out!"

Pushing himself further into Scott with every word leaving his mouth, he let his arms tighten around the blonde, as if to make sure that he still had something to hold onto, something to prevent him from drowning. "Go away," he screeched, but his cheek pressed against Scott's clavicle all the same, and his hands grabbed onto the back of his shirt with abandon. He was a mess, and he didn't give a single fuck about how little sense he was making with his contradictory actions. The alcohol coursing through his veins surely wasn't helping him to keep it cool, either.