Bodyslam

Punch Drunk

A/N: Much love to all of you. I'm envious of my AU characters for living in a world where the last few weeks, months, and years of ours haven't happened. 

This is

no

wait

He's supposed to be here, he thinks. This is the right place.

Scott's bed. Their bed. Their apartment. His eyes dart around to make sure and even that small movement makes his head spin.

But this isn't right.

How much did he drink?

Did he take something?

Mitch whimpers. This isn't who he's supposed to be in bed with.

"Easy," Psycho - fully clothed, thank god, because this is already fucked - repeats. "Drink some water."

A bottle of water appears from the blur at the edges of his vision and he takes it without thinking, can't quite figure out how to make it work. Psycho reaches over and twists the cap off.

He should sit up.

He does, or he tries to. He makes it to one elbow and whimpers again as his gut twists and rebels.

A trash can appears from the blur at the edges of his vision. That's supposed to be in the bathroom. He's not in the bathroom. They're not in the bathroom. "Drink, then puke," Psycho rolls his entire body and Mitch is moved with him, like a carnival ride, now sprawled with his head off the edge of the bed.

He does, and then he does.

Gross.

Puking clears his head a little and Mitch sags, draped across Psycho's hip. His hands make the bottle of water come back to his face and he takes a cautious sip rather than the desperate gulp he tried pre-vomit. This one stays down.

"What - why -" Mitch croaks. "Scott?"

"Scott's asleep on the couch. You're okay."

This isn't a hangover. "Drugs?"

Nothing makes sense. Why isn't Scott in bed with him?

"As in - did you do any? Nope. Do you remember your match?"

"I wrestled?"

"Fuck," Psycho sighs, then carefully muscles them both into what's probably a more comfortable position but Mitch can't fathom what comfort is right now. He just lets it happen, clings to his friend like an anchor in his confusion, stays as horizontal as possible. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Well that's a hell of a question. There's, um - he...they went on a trip, and came home, and "...airport yesterday?" Mitch finally pulls a memory from the muddy waters swirling in his brain.

"Yeah, you were at the airport two days ago."

What?

"It's Sunday, a little after noon," Psycho clarifies. "You, my dear, have a nasty fucking concussion."

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Mitch groans, sips some more water, then groans again. "What happened?

"Not sure yet. Match went as planned, you just seemed a little banged up afterwards until you started to lose your balance backstage. Kit pulled the footage. She's watching it today to see if she can figure it out."