Iceland

i6: if you're lost (i'll be your light)

Mitch has to blink a few times when he wakes up. The lights are all on and there are scraps of paper surrounding him. He sits up and checks the time on his phone. It's two in the morning. His palm hurts a little, and he loosens his fist to reveal harsh fingernail crescents marking his skin, surrounding the piece of paper he'd balled up earlier. He unfolds it carefully, smoothing it out onto the duvet. He doesn't remember writing it, but it's definitely his handwriting, albeit the rushed, loopy version of it.

Sunshine, it's hard being home but not Home. You're my Home.

He blinks at the words for a minute, sleep-sluggish brain trying to process his own scrawl.

"Oh."

He doesn't mean to say it out loud, but he does. He looks up for a moment, looking back down at his lap when he sees the way Scott has his mirror angled so that he can see himself in bed.

Mitch gets up, walks over to the mirror.

He barely recognizes his reflection, tension buzzing just under his skin, pushing tiredly like it's still trying to get out but has ultimately resigned itself to whatever fate should become of it. He looks terrible. He's pale, but there are dark purple moons under his eyes and his eyes themselves are so, so tired. They're dull and glassy, haze misting his sight just a little. His skin feels too small, drawn tight over cheekbones and collarbones and ribs and hips. He needs to sleep, needs to eat, but he can't do either, really. He's barely been drinking enough water to skim the line of dehydration, but in all honesty, he has no appetite and no motivation to sleep.

It's kind of shocking and not at the same time when he thinks about how much it affects him when Scott's not around. This is the worst time, by far, but they've been close for so long that when they're not, it's like his body knows something's wrong. It's usually little things- forgetting a meal or losing a few hours of sleep, but right now, he doesn't think he's had two full meals for the two days he's been home, and he knows for sure he hasn't gotten a total of more than five hours for the two nights.

Scott will be home in something like a day or so, though, and that makes Mitch just a little less numb.

He looks down at the paper, held gently between two fingers. It'll go in his journal.

He makes a silent trip down the dark hall to his own room, stepping over the creaky board by his nightstand and grabbing his journal and a pen.

It falls open to one of his most-visited pages- a poem of sorts he'd written sometime on tour. It was a little bit of a reminiscing moment somewhere between two shows when they were on the bus and it was a quiet, dim afternoon. Everyone had been absorbed in themselves that day, working on their own things and thumbing silently through social media. Mitch had been watching Scott working on an arrangement for something or other, and words had sprung to mind almost faster than he could get them down.

i can see the tick marks

on the road

disappearing under the

bus

and

the trees and the rocks and

the sky

rushing by

in a blur of green

and greybrownred

and

blue

- but

all i can hear and see and focus on

is your voice