reflection | scömìche

chapter one

liTERALLY EVERYTHING IS CRAP BUT I FELT BAD IT TOOK SO LONG

also this chapter is only like 800 words i'm suing

~ansley

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Mitch was humming to himself as he painted the coat of black nail polish onto his toenails. His dad knocked softly on his door, and Mitch hurriedly threw the top back on the polish, covering his toes. He braced himself, hoping his father hadn't noticed he had been painting his nails. "Mitchell, what are you doing?" his father asked sharply, and Mitch tried his best not to flinch at his full name. "N-Nothing, Father," he said timidly, subconsciously shrinking away. "Did you need something?"

"Yes. We are having dinner with the Smiths in an hour. I expect you there to greet the guests."

"Yes, Father."

Mitch's father turned and left without another word, slamming the door behind him.

Mitch let out a shaky breath and gingerly brought his toes out from under their covering, glancing nervously at the door before he shakily — yet more hurriedly than before — began to finish painting them.

+++

Mitch didn't like having dinner with the Smiths.

Their son, John, was very rude and mean to Mitch. He usually made snide comments about Mitch's tightly-fitted shirts or his soft cardigans or his small frame. Luckily, he'd never done anything physical, as Mitch wouldn't last very long. John was the most buff person he'd ever seen, a giant compared to tiny Mitch.

Plus, there was always the fact that Mitch was gay. No one knew this, because he was sure if he told someone he'd just be ridiculed and criticized even more than he already was for being more feminine than the other boys. Mitch liked to fantasize about John in his free time, imagining him treating him like a queen. While John was rude, he was still the only stable man in Mitch's life besides his father, as the Smiths came over quite often.

Currently, Mitch was eating quietly at the table while the adults talked. He could feel John's eyes on him, but he refused to look up, knowing that they'd make eye contact and he'd blush and it would be a disaster.

"So, Mike, have you heard?" Mr. Smith asked, and Mitch tuned in curiously.

"Heard what?"

"The emperor is sending out a draft. They need more soldiers."

"Oh! No, I haven't. When is it going out?"

Mr. Smith shrugged. "Tonight, I think. Do you think your boy'll get in?"

Mike snorted. "Not much of a boy, is he?" he asked coldly, his eyes going to Mitch. Mitch could feel his gaze, and he kept his eyes determinedly on his food, not meeting his father's eyes. Mike shook his head in disgust, turning his attention back to Mr. Smith. Mitch subconsciously looked down to his black-painted toes and slowly set his fork down. He had lost his appetite.

A knock on the door interrupted their meal. "Mitchell. Go get it," Mike commanded, and Mitch murmured a soft, "Yes, Father," as he got up to open the door. He could hear John's snickering and willed himself not to look back.

Mitch opened the door to see a wild-looking messenger, panting from running. "Is this the home of Michael Grassi?" he asked breathlessly, and Mitch uncertainly nodded. "Yes, sir. Shall I get him for you?" The messenger shook his head slightly, shoving the scroll in his hands to Mitch's. "No, it's okay. Take this to him." Mitch nodded slowly, eyeing the messenger slightly nervously. "Yes, sir. Have a good rest of your night." He closed the door and stared at the scroll almost worriedly as he made his way back to where they were eating.

"Give it here, Mitchell," Mike commanded, and Mitch flinched slightly, his hand shaking slightly as he handed it over. Mike scoffed disgustedly and slapped his arm away after he took the scroll. "Go paint your nails or something. No more food for you." Mitch wrapped his arms around his scarily thin stomach and walked slowly back to his room. When John thought Mitch was out of earshot, he burst out laughing, the rest of the dinner guests joining in. Mitch reached his hand up to wipe away his tears, then shut the door to his room.

+++

Mike Grassi waved goodbye to John as he walked out to the Smith family car. He was smiling, but it slowly faded as soon as John was gone. He shook his head and slammed the door.

Mike wished John was his son. John was muscular, handsome, smart — he was perfect. But Mitch, no, Mitch was the opposite of perfect. He was almost like a girl.

Mike finally plopped down on the couch and unrolled the scroll. He began to read, his eyes widening with every word. "Mitchell!" he yelled, slamming the scroll down on the table.

Mitch jumped, immediately starting to tremble as he scrambled out to the living room. "Yes, Father?" he asked quietly, bowing his head respectfully. "Read this," Mike spat, throwing the scroll at him. Mitch flinched, and shakily bent to pick it up. He read it quickly, trembling harder with every word.