Ch. 8

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It's 11:28am.

Some quick mental math as he looks at the incoming Facetime request and Mitch figures it's something like 2:30 in the morning Vegas time. That probably means it's a very drunk Scott on the other end of the call and Mitch isn't sure he wants to deal with that right now.

Fuck.

His thumb hovers over the notification, trying to decide if he should answer or not.

He doesn't.

He feels kind of terrible after a moment. There was no reason for that, really. It's been a quiet week. He's sent a few snaps to Scott of new things he bought and cool places he saw and received a few in return of Scott making a goofy face or, now, partying his ass off in Vegas and that's been the extent of their communication. It's been...odd, but, at the same time Mitch is feeling good and his head is clearer and this is his last day in Paris and he doesn't know if drunk!Scott is going to be weird!Scott.

It's been an amazing week, and for more reasons than the red carpet and the new tattoo and more clothes than he can even really deal with. He's been able to think without a constant cloud of doubt and awkwardness hanging over everything. He hasn't had to tiptoe.

Absence may make the heart grow fonder but it also gives you a certain clarity.

He's not handling this any better than Scott is. They sorta talked once about that night and rather than bring it up again Mitch has been trying to put everything behind him, pun not intended, and pretend nothing happened. That obviously hasn't been working too well. Between feeling like he's been walking on eggshells and Scott being snippy, maybe ignoring the problem isn't actually helping it.

Funny, that.

And it's more than a little annoying that he still can't remember if the sex was good enough to risk everything. .

Mitch leans his forehead against the car window, looking out as the rain falls and the city passes him by. The driver turns onto Av. Montaigne.

If Scott calls again he'll answer.

But first he has some important business named Gucci to attend to. 

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