Set Backs. || PURPLEPHONE

Three Broken Hearts: One.

"I love you!"

Scott's eyes shot open as the words left his mouth, staring up at the ceiling eagerly, before that familiar feeling of hopelessness swallowed him again. He'd just been dreaming. He could still taste Vincent in his mouth, feel his arms around him, hear his voice. 'It's okay, Scott. I forgive you.'

He rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face into the pillow. He wouldn't cry again, he wouldn't! Far too many tears had been shed over the last two days.

He propped himself up on his elbows and looked to the right of him. He hated how empty his bed seemed now, how cold he felt at night without Vincent's warm, strong arms pulling him close. He just wanted to snuggle into him, curl up with him, apologise over and over and over again.  

He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid as to ever take Oliver to bed with him. He'd cheated on Vincent within two weeks of being together with him, and he'd ruined his own chances. It was all his fault.

All his fault.

Scott sighed, pulling himself out of his bed and plodding half-heartedly into the kitchen. It was 6am. He was pretty sure he had the afternoon shift today at work, and Vincent wouldn't be there. Good. He couldn't really deal with facing Vincent at the moment. How could he look at him? He could he possibly say anything to him without feeling like the lying, cheating, backstabbing scum he was?

Turning on the kettle to brew himself a coffee, he walked over to the kitchen table and picked up the bag that was lying there. His work satchel. He stuck in a hand and fished around until he pulled it out.

A little brown, pocket-sized sketch book.

He opened it, ignoring the sweet inscription written in neat cursive by his lover - no, ex-lover -  and flicked through the pages that were filled with sketches. He hated them. Hated all of them. They just reminded him of what he'd done to Vincent. He ripped one of the pages angrily, but only a corner tore off. Ugh. He was even incompetent at being mad.

A wave of nausea hit him suddenly and he groaned. For some reason, all of yesterday he'd spent throwing up in the bathroom, and ever since the club incident he'd felt really, really sick. A kind of sickness that hung on his back, making him feel tired and icky. Ughhh.

The kettle finished boiling and he walked back over to the kitchen bench to pour himself his hot drink. Something flashed out of the corner of his eye and he spun around, sure he'd seen a rat or something, but nothing was there. He sighed, turning back and blaming it as a prolonged side-effect of his depression. 

He took a sip out of his coffee and spat, "Ew!" He hadn't put any sugar in or anything, and the water was scalding hot. He rolled his eyes and poured his coffee down the sink. What was the point?  He was so unfocused lately. Everything just felt like a dream since the club, like he was someone else watching Scott live.

UGH.

He didn't want to go to work today. He didn't want to go anywhere today. He just wanted to lie down and cry again.

He flopped down on the couch and turned on the TV. He didn't care what was on, as long as it could distract him from how awful he felt. His stomach was still twisting and turning and attacking him from the inside out.

The funny thing was, he reflected, that he still hadn't any recollection of the incident. I mean, he remembered dancing with Vincent (his heart ached when he thought about it), remembered dancing with Oliver. Remembered... Remembered... he remembered searching for Ollie. He remembered something about giving a pro money and buying himself a drink... But his memory blanked out soon after taking a sip.