Time After Time

Old Memories

Mitch’s eyelids fluttered open, his body aching from the uncomfortable position in which he had slept in. Slowly pushing himself upright, he looked around his room and stopped when he finally noticed the sunlight pouring in through the window. Exhaling deeply, he took a look at the watch that he was still wearing. It was almost ten o’clock, which meant he must have been asleep for about a full fourteen hours. He couldn't help but be surprised; he usually struggled to get more than a few hours sleep at once. He stared blankly at the wall in front of him, replaying the past few days in his mind. The tears that had rained from his eyes the previous day began to form, but did not escape. The countertenor suddenly remembered the conversation that he’d had with Kirstie the previous afternoon, and brought his hands to his mouth, feeling overwhelmed by strong anxiety. He felt nauseous. A few tears fought free from Mitch’s brown eyes and dripped pathetically down his face. Had Kirstie told Scott? How could he face her? How could he face him? Covering his entire face with his hands, the brunette finally allowed himself to cry properly. He’d surely ruined everything with his stupidity. How could he be so dumb as to fall in love with his best friend? And why the fuck had he mentioned it? He was stupid idiot - a stupid useless idiot and he hated it. He hated himself.  

Minutes, or possibly hours passed, and Mitch finally lifted his head from his hands. His neck ached, his face was tight and his eyes burned, but the leakage had finally slowed to a halt. Looking down at himself, he quickly realized he’d been wearing the same clothes for about a day and a half, and felt instantly disgusted. He forced himself from his position on his bed, grabbed some fresh clothes and headed to the shower. Removing his shirt, he winced at the sight of his body which was still bruised from fists that had landed on his torso and arms. At least he didn't touch my face, Mitch thought, suddenly relieved that he had been able to hide the damage. He looked a mess. He removed his pants, socks and underwear before stepping into the shower and turning on the water.

The warm droplets rained down on the small man’s bruised body, washing away the salty tears that had once again begun to form in his eyes. He looked down, and found himself drawn to the dozens of lines that marked his thighs, old wounds that once leaked the way his eyes did. He touched them gently, fondly, remembering those high school days of torture, and the endless nights he spent alone and afraid. Suddenly frowning, he realized that he was unconsciously considering it again. Shaking his head in an attempt to rid himself of the thoughts, he grabbed some soap and began to wash his battered body. He couldn't go back to any of that. He couldn't. Scott would be so upset if he did, and Mitch knew that, although he couldn't talk to Scott, he wasn't going to hurt him- or at least something similar to that. Mitch sighed as shower washed away the next lot of salty teardrops that fell. He was so confused. Nothing made sense to him, and he hated it.

His legs grew weaker as he sobbed harder, so he allowed himself to sink to the floor. The water dropped down onto him like a stormy rain cloud that was meant only for him. He almost laughed at the comparison; it described the mess in his head perfectly. He sat there for a while, shivering despite the hot water that was running down his skin, and he reminded himself of the rules he had set. There could be no exceptions, not any excuses – it was how things had to go. Mitch detested the rules he had as they made no sense – he wanted to talk to Scott. But there was a right time and a wrong time, and some small, stupid part of Mitch’s brain clearly felt this was the wrong time and wouldn't let him speak. It was harder to ignore the blonde than it was to spend time with him. The brunette ran his fingers over a few of the bruises he’d received and sighed. He couldn't talk to anyone until after they’d faded a little, he decided. Not even Kirstie. And once they were gone, he would be less afraid of people finding out, and so then he could begin to live the way he usually did, right? Growing tired of his brain’s confusing arguments, he clumsily pulled himself to his feet, almost slipping over as he did so, and then shut off the water. He stepped out of the shower and dried himself off before clothing himself and heading back to his bed. 

He sat there for a few minutes, and then sneaked a glance at the clock. 2 o’clock – he’d been in the shower for almost four hours. Mitch leaned back and rested his head on his pillow, his face decorated with disbelief and tears, and concentrated on his breathing. He wanted to sleep again, even though he didn't feel like it. He lethargically moved his hands to wipe his eyes before rolling over and snuggling into his bed.

Meanwhile, Scott was resting on the sofa, eyes closed, thinking about the previous twenty four hours. Kirstie hadn't told him what Mitch had said, despite how hard he'd begged. Was it really such a crime to want to know how his best friend was? Scott sighed and slowly opened his eyes, the afternoon's sunlight causing him to squint. Wyatt was parading around the room, sassy as ever, and Scott couldn't help but think of how much Mitch must be missing Wyatt. He sat up slowly, his eyes still adjusting to the unfamiliar light, and he stood up. He hadn't really bothered getting dressed that morning - he hadn't felt like it - and was only wearing a hooded sweatshirt and a pair of boxer briefs. Kneeling down, he picked up the cat from the floor and made his way over to the shorter man's room. The blonde didn't want Mitch to be alone. He set Wyatt down on his friend's bed, and the cat quickly curled up beside the countertenor and snuggled down. With a small smile, Scott left the room, unaware that Mitch hadn't been asleep, even though it had seemed as though he was.

After the blonde had left the room, Mitch let out a shaky breath. He knew for certain now that what he'd confessed to Kirstie was true; there was no way he could deny it to himself anymore. Despite knowing the extent of his feelings for Scott for a few years now, he'd never allowed himself to truly sit and think about it all.  Perhaps this was why his brain wanted him to ignore the taller man? Mitch found himself growing gradually more confused. Being awake had given him a headache – his thoughts were racing around, flying at the speed of light like an unstoppable force of pain and misery. His clothes – sweatpants and an old baggy t-shirt – felt far too tight, almost as if they were smothering him. His body still ached, his heart felt as though it had been stabbed. He hated break ups. It wasn't just the heartbreak that he hated, no – it was the way they made him act. His mind swirled around again, growing grey and cloudy, just as it had before. He hated men and the way they confused him, the way they used him... abused him. He stared down at his clothed body, glad that it was covered. Those men were right. He was fat, he was ugly, and he certainly couldn't sing. No one would ever love him truly, especially not Scott. Scott probably didn't even care, at least not truly. He let out a sob and felt his eyes overflow again as he wrapped his arms around Wyatt. He lay there, shaking violently, for a while until, eventually, sleep washed over him.