Come Fly With Me

Communicate

My thanks, as always, to Ehcimocs for looking this over before I inflict it on you.

Mitch hesitates in the doorway. He's been waiting what seems like forever to be able to see Scott, but now that he finally can, he's freaking out.

Esther sussed out which hospital Scott was being taken to, and Vincint gave him a ride. Since then, Mitch has had to make his way through all the security the hospital or the airline or whoever-the-fuck is in charge of these things put in place to protect the passengers and crew from intrusion. After repeatedly giving what feels like his entire life story and presenting, in no particular order and changing with each and every person who asks, his driver's license with his name and address, his work ID with his credentials, his instagram account with his couple-y pics, and -- God help him -- the fucking youtube channels that record his conversations for posterity, all to prove he really is Scott's boyfriend, he's finally allowed into a waiting room.

Then he had to wait some more, because Scott was still being assessed and treated. It seemed to take hours, and Mitch has been anxious and worried the entire time, even though a nurse came by every once in a while to tell him Scott was doing okay. Too much time stewing in his own thoughts has never boded well for Mitch, and this is no exception.

Which is why his current hesitance at the doorway is so ridiculous. He's been waiting for this.

Scott's asleep, tucked securely under several blankets in the private room the hospital has granted him. It's dim in the room, but once Mitch's eyes adjust from the fluorescent overheads of the hallway, the light is more than adequate to see that the left side of Scott's face is red and swollen. The lump of his right foot under the blanket is substantially larger than his left, too.

"Told you I'd be home early," a gravelly voice says, jolting Mitch's awareness back to Scott's face, which is now turned towards him, eyes half open.

So. Not asleep then.

"Tomorrow," Mitch replies, entering the room and pulling a chair over towards the bed. "You told me you'd be home earlier tomorrow."

"What can I say? I couldn't wait to see you."

"You scared me." Mitch sits down and reaches for the closest hand-sized lump under the blanket, giving it a squeeze. "I thought I might...I wasn't sure..."

"I'm okay," Scott says, but Mitch doesn't miss the wince around his eyes.

He pulls his hand back. "Shit, did I hurt you?"

"My fingers are sore," Scott admits. "Frostnip. They'll be better in a few days, they tell me. There's some antibiotics and painkillers in my IV." He nods up towards the clear bag hanging above him that Mitch hadn't really noticed.

Ow. "And your face?"

"That made it to 'superficial frostbite', along with my arm," Scott says, lip quirking into a humorless smirk. "Not going to be looking my best the next few weeks."

"You look great." Mitch reaches out and, after a moment's hesitation, runs his fingers over Scott's not-swollen cheek, tracing the edge of his quirked lip with his thumb. "This okay?"

"Yeah."

Mitch wants to kiss him, but doesn't know if it would hurt. He wants to hug him, but knows that definitely would hurt. He's so grateful to have Scott safely back, so very grateful, but he doesn't know what Scott needs. He doesn't even know what he himself needs and worst of all, he doesn't know how to ask without making Scott feel worse.

"You're staring," Scott says, after a too-long moment. "Is my face that bad?"

"No. No, I just--" Didn't know if I'd see it again. Finishing that sentence definitely won't help either of them, so instead, Mitch asks, "Are you hungry?"