A Good Night Full Of Mistakes

Ch. 12

10:23pm isn't a great time to watch your best friend's face crumble, not that there's ever really a good time for that.

Mitch realizes he probably could have chosen better phrasing. Nothing good comes from any permutation of "we need to talk," though he hopes in this case that it won't be a clusterfuck.

It ain't gonna be pretty, though.

"Right. Yeah," Scott mumbles, averting his eyes. His entire bearing seems to slump.

Mitch sighs. "Look. You want me to be blunt or should I just keep dancing around the topic like we've been doing?"

Another silence, long enough that Mitch begins to think Scott won't answer, then, finally, "Be blunt."

"Pretending we didn't fuck isn't working out so well. I know I haven't been the best company the last few weeks, but at least I haven't been a complete ass." Mitch gives his friend a pointed look, remaining silent until Scott looks up and meets his gaze.

"Mitch, I said I was sorry. I am sorry -"

"Sorry is fine," Mitch cuts him off. "But what the fuck, Scott? The most exciting part about going to Paris was knowing that I wouldn't have to hear your jabs and snide comments for an entire week. I've been uncomfortable in my own home because I never knew if you'd find some new and exciting way of making me feel like a whore. Do you know how much it sucked wanting to be far, far away from you?"

Stricken. That's a good way to describe the expression that comes over Scott's face. He looks stricken. "I - no, you're not a whore and I don't think you are. That's not..." he trails off.

"You say that," Mitch replies after a moment, struggling to keep his voice even. "You say that, but what else do you mean when you make little comments about Tinder, or claiming I'm with a boy every day, or when you roll your eyes and glare when I have friends over? Suddenly I feel like I'm being judged for every interaction I have with anyone and that I'm coming up lacking in your mind."

It's interesting, the flurry of emotions that Scott displays as Mitch talks. There's guilt, anger, annoyance, more guilt, scolded-puppy-guilt, and finally something unreadable. "I don't know what you want me to say," he nearly whispers, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

He can be infuriating sometimes.

"Scott," Mitch closes his eyes and takes a deep, calming breath. "Look, sweetheart, this isn't, like, a test with right and wrong answers. What I want is to tell you what I'm feeling, and for you to tell me what's going on your head. That hasn't been happening and, in case you didn't notice, ignoring the problem isn't solving it."

Scott's back to the scolded-puppy-guilt face. The dynamic is odd; Mitch hasn't raised his voice and he feels pretty good about how calm he's been, so it doesn't make sense that Scott would look like he's cowering. He reaches out and rests his hand on the blonde's forearm.

"Now's the time where you take a turn and tell me about the inner machinations of your mind because they're an enigma," Mitch gently prods.