Endgame (Scömìche)

8. Walls

Trigger warning: detailed description of a panic attack.

A/N This was a hard one to write. I'm sorry (It gets better).

Tour life is a strange beast. It's frenetically busy, but also seems to contain endless stretches of time on hold, just waiting for the next item on the show-day dèjá vu list. In this current waiting spell, the band sit together in yet another small magnolia room with dark leather sofas. There's no identifying feature unique to their location at all.

Mitch recalls that it's Thursday, which means they're in Madrid, but really, it could be anywhere. He's swiping through Tinder, giving an amusing comentary in an attempt to alieviate his boredom; "Ooh, Alejandro, yes sir! Yes to Nicolas and, hell yes Leonardo!" His eyes sparkle and his tone is light, teasing.

Scott's expression, however, is anything but. His jaw is clenched and his lips are pressed tight. As Mitch continues, oblivious, Scott exchanges an uncomfortable glance with Kirstie, before leaving the room abruptly.

Mitch glances up as he sees a Scott-shaped blur and scans the room for any sign of a reason for his sudden departure. His eyes meet Kirstie's and he feels a touch aprehensive under her gaze.

"Is Scott okay?" he asks, uncertainly.

"Not sure he was a fan of your little show there Mitchy," she says quietly. He glances round to the others for confirmation. Avi throws him a non-commital thin-lipped smile, while Kevin just grimaces very slightly.

Mitch sighs, pockets his phone and goes in search of Scott. He finds him in their dressing room, perched on the edge of a chair with his head in his hands.

"Hey. Are you okay?" asks Mitch tentitavely.

Scott drops his hands between his legs, elbows still resting on his knees. "Oh, I'm fine. Peachy even," he says, coldly.

"Well that's blatantly untrue. You're pissed with me."

"Of course I'm pissed. You've just been pairing yourself up with a bunch of randoms. Infront of everyone. What the fuck Mitch?!"

"Sweetie, I was just messing around - you know that, right? Just passing the time."

"Are you fucking kidding?!" Scott says in disbelief. "Do you have any idea how that feels for me?! I'm still you best friend Mitch, but I'm also your boyfriend, or had you forgotten that?"

Mitch feels like he's been punched him in the stomach. "That's supremely unfair, Scott. That's not something I'm likely to forget."

"Do you know how many times I've had to watch that before... and not be able to... but now... I thought..." His voice breaks, tears forming in his eyes. He hangs his head, holding a hand up to stop Mitch from filling the silence. "Just leave me alone a minute okay?"

"Scott! Please..."

"Just. Go." says Scott, cutting him off.

Mitch heads back to the room with the rest of the band, in shock, replaying the conversation in his head. He sits stiffly on the black leather couch, face passive, hands folded in his lap. He feels numb, a feeling of lead in his stomach. Kirstie shoots him a questioning look, but he just closes his eyes, and shakes his head imperceptibly. The one person he would normally turn to in a situation like this is the one person who's mad at him. It makes him feel trapped, the cool numbness he felt moments earlier now swiftly replaced with a hot suffocating panic. His control slips and tears fall as he chokes back a sob. He wants to run away and hide but he's unable to move.

"Oh my God, Mitch!" says Kirstie, as she launches herself out of her chair and falls to her knees at Mitch's side, her hands on his thighs. "What happened?!"