Blink

Fragile

And here's where we finally start to earn that Mature rating...

Scott wakes to gentle fingers smoothing through his hair and the press of warm lips caressing his own. He moans and the mouth on his curves into a smile. It's a gorgeous smile, Scott knows without opening his eyes, but it pulls its owner's lips away from Scott's and that just won't do. He lifts his head and gives chase, pulling the curving bottom lip gently between his teeth and nibbling before soothing away any sting that may have been caused with his tongue.

The fingers in his hair slide down and back, spreading out to support the weight of his head, carefully avoiding putting pressure on his still-tender cheekbone. His head is eased back down onto his pillow, but the lips are still on his. A tongue dips briefly into his mouth, hot and wet and insistent, before it pulls away, taking the lips with it.

Scott opens his eyes to find Mitch's warm brown ones looking back at him, a lopsided smile still gracing that beautiful mouth. He's such a fucking tease, although it's not like Scott hasn't known that for years. Of course, he isn't the only one. Scott tucks his bottom lip under his front teeth, tilting his chin down and peering at Mitch through his eyelashes. It's one of his favorite ways to rile someone up and it surprisingly works perfectly: Mitch's breath hitches and his eyes widen to follow the movement.

"Like what you see, Mitchy?" Scott asks, voice still deep with sleep. He's joking, mostly. And maybe looking for a little reassurance. Mitch swallows, hard

"Yeah." Mitch's fingers trace along Scott's jaw and he smooths his thumb across the seam of Scott's lips, skin catching on the edge of a tooth. He's most definitely not laughing. But then he blinks and refocuses on Scott's eyes, breaking the spell. "Fuck, of course I do. Look at you, you're sexy as hell."

"You're full of shit." Scott's looking anything but sexy these days. His wardrobe consists entirely of sweat pants and whatever wide-armed tanks he can fit over his shoulder accessories. Half his face and torso resemble a mottled painting where the artist ran out of everything but purple, brown, and a sickly chartreuse. And he's moving like a ninety year old tin man who never did find his oil can.

"I'm really not," Mitch says. He's not even smiling anymore. "You okay to get up? You need to eat."

Scott nods and then glances around his room, taking in their surroundings for the first time. He fell asleep basking in a ray of warm afternoon sun, but the colors painted across the sky outside his window suggest it's now quite late in the evening. "Where's Mom?"

"Your dad arrived," Mitch says and yeah, okay. It's Friday night; that makes sense. "He dropped off his suitcase and checked in on you but you were dead to the world. He ended up taking your mom out for dinner and a movie."

Mike and Nel had to return to work soon after Scott's discharge and his dad had little choice but to follow, although he's planning on flying into LA every weekend for the near future. Scott's mom, on the other hand, has taken a leave of absence from her rehab center to stay and look after her wayward son like the saint she is.

She cooks ("It's high in fiber, stop whining and eat it"), she keeps track of where he's supposed to be ("we're going to be late again!") and what he's supposed to be taking ("that clindamycin isn't optional, Scott!"), she helps him with even the most basic of hygiene issues ("I'm your mother, what do you think you have that I haven't seen?"), she puts up with his bullshit when it's tolerable ("let's get you a snack, sweetie"), and puts him down hard when it's not ("I'm your mother, you watch your mouth!").

She goes with him to all his appointments. She talks to doctors in healthcare-speak and actually understands what they're saying. She's the one who's there when how badly his tat sleeve is fucked up finally becomes obvious to him. She cries with him because his flowers—his beautiful flowers for his beautiful family, including the brand new larkspurs for her birthday that barely even had time to stop itching—are ragged and stitched and torn and broken. She's basically what's been holding him together when it feels very much like his whole world is falling apart. She and Mitch.