catch me like a cold (scomiche)

chapter one

A/N 

italics are scott thinking back on things, non italics are present day

some things may be confusing at first, bear with me

ok enjoy 

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Maybe it's the fact that Mitch can't hear him, maybe that's why Scott starts overthinking. Perhaps it's the fact that his feet are impossibly cramped as he attempts to curl into Mitch's side. The hospital bed is far from a California king and the beeps of a monitor aren't calm like the lullaby of heartbeats and Wyatt purring, but as long as it keeps screeching, Mitch is alive. Her hair is still knotted on the top of her head in a bun, barely misplaced from a couple of hours ago. Has it really only been that long? Scott can't help to feel that it shouldn't have gone like this. God dammit, it's Christmas. Mitch should be profusely waltzing around their kitchen and sneaking licks of icing off the cinnamon rolls, should be pressing kisses on Scott's neck like the snowflakes that aren't falling. Their situation is far from warm and holiday-like, though. Scott's fingers are numbingly cold just from holding Mitch's hand, or maybe it's the icy dread weighing him down and spreading a frost throughout his body. He probably needs to be answering questions and signing forms, but there isn't one ounce of his body that is willing to move from Mitch's side.

Mitch hates hospitals, despises them. She's going to wake up furious, Scott thinks. She's going to wake up. She's going to wake up. Right? Scott all but shudders at the possibility that she might not.

Convincing himself that it's not his fault is enough to exhaust his mind, but it's an occupation at least. Scott traces it back a couple of months, taking a winding path back to when he could be reassured that the single most important person in his life wouldn't die. September fourteenth, he recalls. The day of the diagnosis. Mitch was perched on a stool in his doctor's office, picking at the already chipped navy nail polish. 'You're gonna mess it up, babe. I worked hard to help with those.' Scott had croaked. Nothing about that office felt consolatory, especially not the laminated poster of a lion preaching about heart health. The lion was extra taunting. Scott knew Mitch was scared from the way his legs crossed, could tell by the way his adam's apple kept bobbing. Putting on the bravest of fronts and rubbing circles in Mitch's back didn't seem to be helping, though, so Scott did all he could. Treating his boyfriend like a paper doll, Scott pulled Mitch off the stool and onto his lap. His bag fell in the process and Scott's arm was borderline numb, but they were closer. Closer is all they could hope for. Mitch had taken to toying with Scott's fingers, and barely gracing a hushed whisper, spoke. 'They're going to get ruined anyway.'

For reasons unknown, that phrase stuck with Scott. From the time the physician reported back to them with a diagnosis of adult-onset asthma, to now. They're going to get ruined anyway, how pessimistic of Mitch. How true of her, too. Maybe they are going to get ruined anyway, but maybe they'll get fixed again as well. Not on the topic of nail polish anymore, though, Scott knew he and Mitch were ruined. Mitch had dropped dead on their kitchen floor on Christmas day, and nothing about that situation is okay. But doctors perform surgery, and doctors have medicine. Just like Scott had taken a shivering Mitch into their bedroom and wiped off the remains of blue paint, doctors could strip an analysis to it's core. Scott had placed a kiss on her lips before recoloring Mitch's nails, the doctors could build everything inside of her back up. Sure, Scott could give her a damn good manicure, but doctors could give her a second chance at a healthy life.

Something about the idea of Mitch's asthma coming back didn't sit right in Scott's stomach. Obviously he was in no place to question the professionals, but from the standpoint of knowing Mitch for almost fifteen years, he was a bit uneasy. Sure, he thought back on the few times Mitch had to sit out in gym class and the one performance where he ran off stage to use his inhaler and felt comfort. It'd been a little over nine years since his last breathing problem, and to the uneducated eye Mitch looked fine. On a humid morning in August, though, Scott was startled awake by a swatting hand and panting. Mitch kept saying it over and over. 'I'm going to die, Scott. I'm fucking dying.' One palm was fisting at their sheets and the other was clawing at his tremoring chest. That couldn't have possibly been just asthma, not with the heart palpitations and chest pains. Scott's mind was practically severed in two as he half carried Mitch to the car and urgently attempted to figure out what in the hell was happening. That was the first time he worried Mitch wouldn't be alive and well much longer. It wouldn't be the last.