A/N: Last installment of this story.

You asked for it.

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Tick, tock, tick, tock.

The sound of the clock echoes in the empty room, and he feels like his heartbeat slows down to match the passing of time. He sits with his back straight on the hard chair of the waiting room, his eyes focused on the white marble floor, his hands intertwined on his lap. He hears voices in the distance, but the sounds are muffled and he can't understand the exact words. His breath hitches in his throat, the feeling of not knowing what is happening and who is talking making him feel sick in the stomach. He tells himself that there’s nothing that can hurt him here, that he’s here of his own free will, and nothing and no one is forcing him, physically or psychologically. He tells himself that, over and over, and he forces himself to stop listening and focus his hearing on the clock again, trying to calm himself down.

Tick, tock, tick, tock,

There are pamphlets on the coffee table on his left, every single one of them folded carefully so no one can see the subjects - although if someone was to enter right in this moment, it wouldn't be hard to see a wrinkled one thrown on the chair next to his, and it would be easy to guess the bold black word on the front, screaming for attention.

Suicide

He knows that it might raise questions, but he doesn't care. He had to look at it, and he did read it carefully, more out of curiosity than anything else. Given the recent situation, there is nothing more left to him than to try to understand, which is the only thing he is not able to do, no matter how hard he tries, day after day, night after night, in what seems to be a never ending cycle of guilt and shame.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Attracted to the repetitive sound, he  raises his eyes to the clock, focused on catching the movements of the minute hand, blocking everything outside like the therapist has told him. His ears fills with the hypnotizing  sound, and he slowly feels more relaxed, letting his body enjoy the quiet washing over him like warm water, loosening his limbs. As soon as the minute hand moves to the six, he closes his eyes, as if he doesn't do it then he will drown again in his own misery.

When he opens his eyes, there is an afraid shadow in them, making them look less dark. He frees his hands and puts them on his thighs, slowly rubbing the fabric of his pants in a repetitive pattern, feeling his legs getting warmer at the movement. He's not cold, he just feels like he needs something to do with his hands while waiting for his appointment. He's afraid that if he doesn't keep his hands busy, he will end up taking the pamphlet again, and he doesn't want to read it anymore. There's no use in it.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

His eyes move from the wall to the wooden door at the end of the hallway, the only dark spot in a ocean of pure whiteness. For some reason, he remembers Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy. Maybe there's some sort of symbolism, if he thinks about it. Maybe the waiting room is his limbo and the dark door leading into the therapist studio is his own hell.

His trail of thoughts gets interrupted by the loud sound of the door opening, and hushed voices. He quickly turns, moving his gaze back to the clock, anxiously wondering if they saw him look that way. He keeps his eyes in front of him, avoiding any chance to lock eyes with the other patient. Did they see him? Did they realize he was listening? Are they talking about him?

He finally release a sigh when he hears the door of the waiting room opening and then closing. He feels better now that he’s alone again, but he knows that his appointment is about to start.  He tries to clear his mind from everything. He waits for the therapist to fix whatever's needed in the studio, before reappearing on the threshold, staring at him intensely before calling his name.

"Mr Grassi?"

He breathes, already regretting the decision to come. He knows that he can't avoid it, he knows that he needs help. It's just so hard to admit that something like this is really happening, something that he can't fight alone. Finally, he stands up, and slowly starts walking towards the door. The young therapist gives him a small smile, before turning and getting inside the room, giving him the illusion that if he's getting inside then it's his decision. He turns around to take one last look at the big loud clock, before sighing and closing the door behind his back.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

-----

"Why did you decide to come here?"

Mitch looks up at the blonde woman, taken aback from the question. He stares at her, eyes wide open in disbelief, mouth hung open. "I-I.. what?" He asks, defensive, setting his back straighter to distance himself from her without even noticing, as he usually does these days, his subconscious trying to protect him from any potential threats.

She doesn't seem surprised at his reaction. Her hazel eyes don't move from his face, the round thin glasses surrounding them giving her a softer edge - a look that, he knows, can mask pretty well her true attitude towards patients. "I asked you why you decided to come." She repeats slowly, not like she's mocking him, more like she's trying to help him understand, as if she knows that his focus is not quite on the appointment.

He swallows, moving his gaze from her pretty face to the desk, covered with notebooks and papers. He wonders briefly how much of him is written on those notes. He doesn't answer straight away, thinking slowly about the words that have left her mouth, trying to find hidden meanings behind them. He has been coming in her office for weeks now, and even before that she knew everything that was happening. What is the purpose of asking? What is she planning? What does she need from him?

"Mr Grassi?"

"You know why I'm here. I- I've been coming here for weeks now and I - why are you asking? What do you mean? What is it - did I say something? If I did then I didn't - I wasn't - "

"Mitch?"

"I swear I didn't intend to - I'm here for the appointment not for - please don't -"

"Mitch."

It's not the repetition of his name but more the voice used to pronounce it that shuts him up, interrupting the panic attack that was starting to surface. He closes his eyes, focusing on breathing properly, twisting his hands in his lap just to have something to do. He might have stopped talking, but in his mind the words are going on, a swirl of thoughts and questions and worries, a never ending list of things that he could have said, of things that he could have made. What was it this time? What did he do wrong now? What is it that people want from him?

"Please look at me."

He takes a deep breath before raising his head and meeting her eyes, relaxing when he sees that they look gentle and clear, two ponds of serenity where he can gently swim instead of drown. He feels himself calm down, and she must realize the same, because a small smile suddenly tug at her lips, and Mitch knows that he's doing the same.

"Mitch, I'm here to help you. I'm not asking for some hidden reason, I promise you. I just want to assist you in your healing process, and even if it seems weird to you, this is only meant to help." She falls silent then, and it takes a couple of minutes for Mitch to realize that she is waiting for him to give his acceptance - so he nods. "Perfect. Let's start this again, shall we?" Another nod. "So why are you here?"

He waits just a few seconds to reply, which is less than he usually does these days. "Because  - " It's difficult to say it out loud, and Mitch feels like he's choking on the words. When the young woman doesn't speak up, he understands that she's waiting for him to continue, that he has to be able to do it, or nothing will ever get better. He swallows again, trying to gather more courage, although he already feels his breathing going faster, his chest raising and lowering with a quicker pace.

Another deep breath, before rushing into the void. "I'm here because someone died."

"Who did?"

"Please -" He begs with a small voice, closing his eyes, unable to say the name. He can't stand the feelings of guilt and pain and fear and everything that comes with it. It's too much to handle right now.

"Mr Grassi, you have to."

"Scott." He spits through gritted teeth, almost like he's vomiting something that’s blocking his throat. "He did. He d-died."

"And who was Scott?"

"You know who he is!" Mitch snaps, abruptly standing up. His hands are fisted, his eyes gleaming with rage. "He is your patient, you fucking know who he is and what he did to me, you know everything! Why are you being so cruel? Why are you making me talk about it? Stop it!"

As soon as he stops yelling, silence falls on the studio, the only sound around them coming from his ragged breath. Mitch stares at the therapist, shaking, but it seems like the sudden outburst doesn't bother her in any way. She just takes off her glasses to set them on the desk, then goes back to give him her full attention.

"Was." It's the only thing she says, her bright eyes focused on him, undisturbed. It's defeating and confusing at the same time, and that's what makes him feel out of balance and actually calms him down.

"What?"

"Was. I asked you who he was, not who he is."

"Kirstin, I don't -"

"He's dead, Mitch. I keep asking you the same questions, and you keep telling me the right answers, until we reach this point. This is what you need to understand. Scott Hoying is dead. He shot himself in the head."

Mitch's eyes are wide open, and he's so bewildered that he feels unstable on his feet. He sits back, just to have something concrete under him, because there are so many emotions swirling inside of him that he feels like they might spill out of him soon, leaving him empty to crumble on the floor.

"I don't - I know that. What are you.. what, why? Why are you -"

Dr. Maldonado finally lets her cold facade break, standing up from behind her desk and walking towards him, her long blonde hair elegantly following her movements, gently caressing her back and making her look younger. She once told him that she keeps that look to make patients feel more comfortable around her - more like they're talking to a friend than to a psychiatrist. That's the same reason why she asked him to call her by first name, and Mitch has to admit that it actually makes him feel safer - which is what this is all about.

She takes the big chair next to him, and slowly moves to take his hand - slowly enough that the boy can understand what she's doing and can easily distance himself if he doesn't want to be touched. Mitch recognizes the concern, and feels like crying - partly because of the sweetness behind the gesture, and partly because of the fragile being that he has become, afraid of what people might do to him - because of him.

"Mitch," she says, repeating his name once again to divert the focus to her words more than to her movements. "What Scott did to you was wrong, and I know that it’s hard to believe that it's over. But it is. He is dead. He can't hurt you anymore. He can't threaten you anymore. He is gone and you - you are free."

Somehow it's hearing those words, that should be reassuring, that cause the flood gates to open. His deep brown eyes are soon glistening with tears, his cheeks are wet and stained, and although he didn't want to talk before, it feels like now he can't stop. Words pour out of his mouth through heart breaking sobs, his voice breaking every once in a while between hiccups.

"I-I didn't w-want him to be d-dead. I just w-wanted him to s-stop. I was s-so tired." He sobs and sobs, feeling warmth on his shoulder, where Dr Maldonado has put her hand to comfort him. "I-if I had known that he w-was going to s-s-shoot himself I would have not.. or..or.. t-tried to t-told him but.. how could I?"

He sniffles and coughs between each sob, feeling like he's choking on his own sorrow. He briefly think that it could be okay, as long as he stops waking up in his bed screaming, pillow drenched with tears, his mind filled with nightmares about finding the blonde man in their living room, blood stains on the carpet and the walls, where they landed after the shot. During these kind of nights he just can't go to sleep again, the dead body the only picture behind his eyelids, but he can't go to relax in his living room either, feeling like the whole room still has the irony smell of the thick red liquid in it, even after cleaning the whole space and changing the carpet. He wonders if the smell simply isn't embedded in his mind, and if he will ever forget it.

"Mitch, you couldn't do anything, do you understand me? We've been through this. Scott Hoying was a poor, sick man, and you did nothing wrong to him, because you didn't know." Mitch feels the therapist's eyes on him, her soothing words in his ears, an attempt  to calm him down although he can't really process them.  "Listen to me, okay, this is important. Most victims of stalking fall in this vicious cycle of blame and guilt, but you have to understand that it was not your fault.”

"B-but he was my f-friend and maybe if I h-hadn't had s-sex with him.. I-if I had l-loved him like he n-needed.." he sobs and sobs, his eyes starting to hurt from how hard he's shutting them, searching a way to stop the tears, " I-I d-didn't know he l-loved me and - w-why was he so obsessed w-with me? W-why me? I d-don't want to be his m-murderer."

When he finally look up at her, he can see that her eyes are wet too, her pretty face wearing a shadow of sadness matching his own. He doesn't know if it's the right thing to do, if it's unprofessional or something like that, he just know that right now he needs some kind of comfort, some kind of affection that he has not sought since Scott completely ruined his life, befriending him after Mitch had read the advertisement for the spare room of what then became their shared apartment.

“You are not his murderer. You are a victim, and I’m so sorry that this happened - all of this. I wish I would have done something sooner, that when he called me in a full panic attack I would have done something more than just try to calm him down and give him sedatives.” She tightens her grip around him, her tiny body shaken by the forcefulness of his sobs. “You did nothing wrong, you didn’t know it. You did nothing.”

Squeezed in her tiny arms, wetting her blouse with his tears, he cries and remembers how everything started. He remembers finding the boy gorgeous but prohibiting himself from trying to do anything about it, not wanting to make living together weird. He remembers the months of getting to know each other and the friendship they built. He remembers how they ended up being almost twins, and feeling so happy in this little bubble that he chose to ignore how clingy Scott could be, how jealous he could get when Mitch had a date.

He remembers how a single night full of sadness and wine slowly turned into a night full of passion and amazing climaxes, his tiny body intertwined with Scott's much bigger one. He remembers the awkwardness of the morning after, and how he told himself that it would never happen again. He remembers when reality proved him wrong and how everything collapsed after that.

He remembers the fights. He remembers the crying, the screaming. He remembers the threats, he remembers the guilt. He remembers the letters that Scott wrote him when he told him he was looking for another apartment. He remembers all the apologies and the I'm sorry's and the promises of changing. He remembers the last talk they had, the last beg Scott gave him, the last threat he made. The last Don't leave me, I'm going to kill myself without you. He remembers the frustration building inside of him and the words leaving his mouth - he remembers the "Fuck you, do it, you'll do me a favor!".

He remembers hours later when he got a call from this unknown number, Dr Maldonado on the other line, panic in her voice as she asked him if he was with Scott and if something had happened. He remembers the cold going through his veins when she explained the situation, the words  paranoid disorder and stalking disorder ringing in his mind like warning bells.

He remembers running home full of regret and guilt, thinking Maybe I did something wrong, maybe I shouldn't have told him so harshly that he have to stop. He remembers finding the lights shut off and freezing in fear, the weird smell of fire and iron burning his nostrils. He remembers calling out his name, a mix of fear of not finding him and a fear of hearing his reply, wishing he could see he was okay, and wishing he wasn’t so he could finally be free of this never ending nightmare of control and possession.

He remembers the last letter Scott wrote to him, sitting on the kitchen counter, papers full of harsh words and pain and Why don’t you love me. He remembers discovering his body. He remembers crying, he remembers calling the police. He remembers going into his room to find his diaries.

Finding out about Scott's side of the story probably was what made him realize how wrong he had been all that time. He remembers calling Dr Maldonado back, demanding an explanation and finding out about the truth. She invited him in the studio and told him all about this weird reality where Scott was just a poor boy in love, while he was a heartless bastard, only using him for his body, making him feel unwanted, unloved, unworthy. The truth about who he once considered his best friend felt like a punch in the face, and it took him a while to process it. Having the police demanding to talk to him and ask him questions about his relationship with Scott, and feeling like he was the villain in this whole story, was just the cherry on top.

And maybe he truly is the villain. Because as he sobs and cries in her arms, grabbing the fabric of her blouse as if needing something to hold on to, he knows that the first thing that crossed his mind when he found the man's body was It's finally over.

----

Mitch gives a small smile towards the blonde therapist, a smile that leaves his lips as soon as the thick dark door closes behind his back. He feels emotionally drained from the appointment, not sure if in a good or bad way. He knows that he might feel better now that he's leaving the studio, but it wouldn't surprise him if as soon as he's out of the building he will turn into this fragile scared man once again, fearing that every nice stranger might be another person ready to vow him love just to chain him in another endless cycle of fear.

He starts walking towards the exit, trying to focus his mind on the calming words Dr Maldonado has said to him in her sweet soothing voice. He reaches the coat hanger to retrieve his jacket, but before his hands can reach it, his eyes fall on the chairs in the waiting area, noticing that the wrinkled pamphlet is still sitting there, untouched. He stares at it for a couple of seconds, and almost like a spell his feet start moving towards it, his steps resounding on the floor, matching the ticking of the clock hung on the wall.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Finally, his hand closes around the paper, and without looking he folds it quickly and puts it in his pocket, almost ashamed of it. He turns again and resumes his walking, in the end reaching the exit door and going out of the place. He breathes deeply, feeling like he was just about to suffocate and he's finally able to inhale properly.

He starts walking towards his car, his eyes on the sidewalk, afraid of meeting some stranger's eyes. He keeps his head bowed down, not wanting to catch any kind of attention. It’s ironic to think that he once was this perky and loud person, his whole being demanding to be seen, and wanted. So much can change in so little time. It would be astonishing if it meant that the change had been something good. What a shame that, for him, it only meant living this new life filled with panic and a gut feeling of being surrounded by potential threats.

He quickly unlock the car and then goes in, feeling safer as soon as he locks the doors. He then allows himself to look properly at the pamphlet, unfolding it on top of his steering wheel. He reads it carefully, focusing in particular on the end, where crisis lines are listed. Swallowing, he fishes his phone out of his pocket, pressing the numbers almost absent-mindedly, but stops before dialing.

He wonders what kind of trigger is pulled when you feel like life does not matter anymore, what is the thing that makes you feel like it’s too much. He wonders how could he have been that thing for Scott, how many unwanted mistakes he has done to make him reach that point. He knows that deep inside it had nothing to do with him, that Scott had a mental illness that only projected on him, but that doesn’t change the heart crushing feeling of being the final cause of his death.

He closes his eyes, a tear threatening to fall, before he deletes the numbers on the phone screen. He crumples the paper into a ball, careless, and throws it on his passenger seat, along with his phone, his jacket and the things inside his pocket. He then ignites the engine and exits the parking lot, speeding away without looking back at the building once.

His phone is turned off.

----

A/N: How many of you are still here and feel the need to flip me off? 

You guys.. I'm sorry. Actually, I'm not, let's be honest. As soon as this idea came to mind, I couldn't stop thinking about it. 

I will tell you, this was the nicer version. It could have been way worse, just ask my - amazingly nice and beautiffff - beta Sarah. Hope you guys enjoyed the mind-fucking journey, this is what usually happen if you ask Satan for more painful things, because my mind is full of very sick ideas lmao

Bye <3