Bodyslam

Casino Ex Machina

A/N: I think the cheese in this one got away from me. Please enjoy copious fondue. 

See the very end of the chapter for another note.

More than an hour or two must've passed because when Mitch opens his eyes he's not alone.

Gotta pee. Need water.

So, so tired.  

It takes longer to extricate himself from bed and limbs than it does to de-hydrate, re-hydrate, and stumble back from the bathroom.

There's absolutely no reason to get up for the day.

They're on fucking vacation, and some hazy part of his exhausted brain recalls that there are no actual plans until tonight.

So, sleep. More of that.

Scott mumbles something drowsy and incomprehensible when Mitch slides back under the sheets and reclaims his spot and it's just...he's just too tired to try and figure out what it was.

Instead he allows himself to be enveloped once again, first by limbs and then by slumber.

***

"Oh my goddddddd," Mitch groans, setting his chopsticks down and fixing Scott with a glare across the ridiculous dining room table.

Scott blinks at him, startled, the bite of noodles he's been doggedly trying to coax into his mouth slipping back into his bowl. "The fuck?"

"I'm fully aware of what I said this morning. It's been hours so can you, like, stop staring at me with that look when you think I won't notice?"

He carefully sets his own chopsticks down, chewing around a half smile. "I don't know what look you're talking about."

"The one where you do your best impression of a large puppy with indigestion. Or like your face is gonna melt off. Sometimes both at the same time."

"And you say you're not the romantic type. That was poetry."

Mitch rolls his eyes. "Roses are red, violets are blue, if you don't quit being so fucking sappy I'll Canadian Destroy you."

"Hm," Scott picks up his chopsticks and resumes lunch. "Points for creativity but I'm gonna have to take a deduction for verbifying the Canadian Destroyer like that. She didn't deserve it. And I can't help my facial expressions."

He sighs, heavy and dramatic, silently pleased with himself for not cracking a smile at Scott's critique.

Scott does his best to look disinterested. "You spook easy. Like a deer. I'm no-selling it."

He's...okay, yeah, he kind of is no-selling it. Scott's been oddly chill since they dragged themselves out of bed after eleven this morning, almost freakishly so, which is why Mitch brought it up in the first place. "I hate you so much," he mutters fondly.

"Not what you said earlier," Scott replies around a mouthful of food, expression impassive, continuing to no-sell the observation.

Mitch rolls his eyes again. Touché. At least they're both on the same page. "You've still got hours of you-time left today. What's next on the agenda?"

"After this giant bowl of noodles and the amount we drank last night? Dunno 'bout you but I desperately need to work out or I'll never be able to wear those new trunks."

Thank god. Mitch has been better able to eat semi-healthy over the last 24 hours than he'd expected but it's been a struggle, especially when faced with lunch from a fucking noodle bar. He was hoping they wouldn't miss a workout on top of the crap food, considering the spandex and all. "Same. This is delicious but still..."