The English Paper (Scomiche Fanfiction)

Chapter 8: When Good Boys Go Bad

Scott's POV

I felt like I was running for my life.

My hands were shaking and I could barely hold on to Mitch's passed out body. But, I kept running. I ran through the streets of Arlington like a crazy person-blood, sweat, and tears pouring down my face and pooling at the neck of my shirt.

I had no insurance, considering that no company wanted to insure a drug-dealing, police-recorded teenage guy. There was no way I could use Mitch's insurance, considering I wasn't family and his parents weren't exactly on my good side.

So, I couldn't take Mitch to a hospital. They'd ask for a check and I'd probably be thrown in jail for not having the money.

No matter how much I didn't want Mitch to see the embarrassing conditions I lived in, he needed a place to rest. So, I hightailed it across town and arrived at my dingy upper-floor apartment in 15 minutes.

Mitch was still passed out in my arms and I was worried about him. Like, more worried than I'd ever been in my entire life.

I didn't care about my parents. I cared minimally for my brother, Chris.

But for some reason I felt like I would give my own life for Mitch. Is that love?

The apartment door creaked open, and I kicked it closed when I stepped inside. The only furniture I had was an old brown couch, a gray-ish, round table, a mattress, and a closet. I spent most of my money on clothes, because at least then I wouldn't get made fun of at school.

Been there, done that.

I put Mitch on the couch and hurried to the kitchen. Grabbing a washcloth and wetting it with pleasantly warm water, I met Mitch on the couch again and started wiping his face. The dried blood came off, but it left behind dark red stains on his face. Pushing his hair back, I wiped the blood off his wounds with one end of the towel, and dried them with the other. When his face was clean, I started wiping his neck, taking notice of the large black bruise on his neck.

God, his father was a bastard.

God, my father was a bastard.

Choking back the fresh tears that flooded my eyes, I continued washing Mitch off. He understood what I went through. Prissy, sassy, good-boy Mitch Grassi actually understood my demons. Kevin didn't. Avi didn't. But Mitch did.

I was really, really, starting to fall in love with him- if I hadn't already.

When his neck was clean, I realized his shirt was soaked with blood, some of it probably my own. Was it wrong to take off a passed out, injured guys shirt? For completely non-indulgent reasons, of course. Therefore, after answering my own question, I pulled Mitch's shirt off slowly and deliberately. He wasn't shredded, but I didn't want that. He was in shape, with the light trace of abs I remember being pressed against me all but one day ago. But now, they were covered a terrible shade of scarlet, littered with cuts and dark blue bruises. My towel was losing it's moisture, so after running it under water again, I continued wiping of Mitch. I took extra good care of his hands; interwining our fingers and washing each one, loving the feel of our palms pressed against each other.

After that, I had a small battle with myself as to whether or not I should take his pants off. They were bloody and no doubt uncomfortable, but it wasn't necessary to take them off.

So, in case you didn't catch it, that was me subtly saying that when I pulled off his jeans it was 100% self-indulgent.

I rubbed the wet towel across his smooth skin, taking in every inch. I'd seen him shirtless before, but not pants-less. Better yet, shirtless and pants-less.