Mitch's P.O.V.

I was so happy to be home again I could pass out. Not only was the relief weighing on me, but the pain in the back of my skull was still dizzying.

I slowly walked into the kitchen, grabbing a ginger ale in hopes to calm my jumping stomach, and plopped down on the couch.

I still felt like passing out, so I took a sip of my ginger ale and closed my eyes, hoping that once I woke up, I would feel better.

*******

I was dead wrong. I sat up, feeling ten times worse than I had before I went to sleep. The dizziness had transitioned into a naseau that washed over me from the moment I was ripped from my dreams.

I jumped up from the couch, spilling my can of soda on the coffee table in the process, and made a mad dash for the bathroom.

I got there just in time, because as soon as I had flipped the light switch on, the naseau overcame me, and I began to vomit.

Great, I thought to myself. Troye probably gave me a concussion. Just add that to a long list of injuries I've gotten from that asshole.

My thoughts were interrupted by another round of violent heaves.

Oh God. Please let Scott come home soon.

*******

Scott's P.O.V.

Another fun day on Mission Impossible. Kirstie, Avi and I had gone out for breakfast this morning. Kevin couldn't come because he had a job interview, but we still had a great time. It would've been even greater with Mitch there...

Stop. You can't think like that with Troye in the picture. Even though the guy was a jerk, he seemed to make Mitch happy. I couldn't get in the way of that.

I pulled into the parking lot and, much to my surprise, Mitch's car was already in it's usual spot next to mine.

Weird. I wasn't really expecting him to be home. As far as I knew, he was still supposed to be at Troye's house.

Oh well. I guess that I could handle a little time around Mitch. It's not that I didn't like, I just liked it a little too much.

It had been two months since I had recruited Kirstie to help me get Mitch out of my head, and honestly, it was kind of working. It was only times like this when we were alone together that I had a little trouble with. That wasn't very often though. Between me going out all the time and Troye whisking Mitch away, there wasn't much time left for just the two of us.

As soon as I walked into the apartment, something seemed off. I figured Mitch would be sitting on the couch or shut up in his room, but the couch was empty and his door was wide open.

"Mitch?" I called, hanging my keys on the hook by the door.

I walked further into the living room and saw that a can of ginger ale was tipped over on the coffee table.

"What the heck?" I mumbled to myself as I rushed to get a towel and clean it up.

As I was wiping up the bubbly soda, I heard a weird hacking sound from Mitch's bedroom.

"Mitch?" I called again, more worried this time. I abandoned the sticky mess and quickly advanced towards Mitch's open bedroom.

I was answered by another noise, this one sounding more like heaving. It was coming from the bathroom.

I poked my head in and gasped. "Mitch!"

He was sitting on the floor in front of the toilet, hunched over it and vomiting. He looked awful like this, a sweaty shivering mess. I had never seen him so weak.

"S-s-scott-" he stammered, interrupted by a bout of especially painful looking heaves.

"Oh God Mitchie, what happened?"

"I-I hit...m-my head."

I swept his soaked hair out of his eyes, trying to make him as comfortable as possible.

He sniffled and blew his nose. "I
t-think I'm done."

"What in the world did you hit your head on?"

He paused before replying. "The
w-wall."

I eyed him skeptically, but decided to let it go.

"Alright. Well can you come lay down in your bed?"

"I t-think so." He gripped the counter to brace himself and then started to get up. I could see that he was still very visibly shaking and that he wouldn't be able to pull himself up without falling, so I shot my arms under him at the last second before he crashed down to the floor.

"Thank you S-Scott," he whispered, tucking his body closer to me.

"No problem Mitch. I'm going to lay you down. Is that okay with you?"

"Y-yes."

I started to carry him towards his bed when I realized that his shirt was soaked through with sweat. It was no wonder. He was wearing a long-sleeved black shirt that clung to his body, even more so now that it was soaked.

I gently lay him down, trying not to jostle him too much, before I opened his dresser in search of a cooler shirt.

*******

Mitch's P.O.V.

Wow. Concussions really suck.

To be honest, being carried to my bed by Scott wasn't all that bad, but it also kind of made me feel like a baby because of how awful I felt.

I wasn't able to really appreciate the closeness of Scott's body with how sweaty I was. It was actually really gross. Not to mention a had a terrible headache and a bit of lingering naseau.

I flopped my head around lazily until I noticed Scott rifling through my drawers.

"What are you doing Scotty?" I asked him, trying to sit up but abandoning the idea immediately.

"Trying to find you a cooler shirt. You can't be wearing that when you're feeling like this." He walked over to me and felt my forehead. "Jeez Mitch! You're burning up!!"

"Is that your way of calling me hot?" I asked, giggling. Yup. Definitely a fever.

He tensed up and turned away from me. "I just need to find you a tank-top or something. That can't be comfortable."

It finally dawned on me the reason that I was wearing the long sleeves in the first place. Scott couldn't see my bruises. He'd go nuts!

"Well just be prepared."

He looked at me with confusion on his face. "For what?"

I had to think fast. "Well me and Troye recently started playing paintball, so I've got a lot of nasty bruises and some cuts."

"That's okay Mitch. Just relax while I get you a shirt."

******

Scott's P.O.V.

My fingers fumbled around in Mitch's drawers until I finally found a simple black tank top. Perfect.

"Alright Mitch. Can you sit up or do you need me to help you?"

He was silent for a minute, then held his arms out to me.

I laughed at how childish he looked but helped him up. I quickly stripped the wet shirt off of his tiny body and caught my breath as I saw what he warned me about.

Bruises dotted nearly every inch of this boy's body. They looked terribly painful, some a reddish new, others a yellow aged. There was barely any undamaged skin visible.

But bruises were the least of my worries. Down his left arm in particular, along with across his ribcage, were long, ugly looking cuts that were definitely infected.

How could I have not noticed this before? How could Troye not take care of his boyfriend?

As much as I hated to admit it, this made me feel genuinely afraid for the small boy in my arms. If Troye couldn't take care of Mitch when he really needed it, maybe they weren't such a good match.

I slipped his tank top over his head before gently laying him back down on the pillows.

"Mitch?"

He grinned up at me. "Mmm hmm?"

"I need to talk to you."