the little things.

he is okay.

inspired by an inkskinned post on tumblr

warnings: domestic violence (physical + verbal), mentions of abuse, lowercase intended.

***

scott did not grow up in an abusive household.

his father did not throw empty glasses at his head, and he never went to school with a bruise he himself did not cause. his mother didn't turn her head in disgust when he came out to his family, and there was never a day his sisters were not proud to call him their brother when they went to school.

needless to say, when it began, he didn't necessarily notice.

it did not start off with a heat-of-the-moment punch, a stunned look on both faces and meaningless but convincing apologies leaking from attractive lips. it was not set off by scott having brunch with his friends the following day, cheek dark and jaw aching. "an accident," he didn't lie easily, "i fell into the door."

instead it started with the compliments, little off-hand comments that the blonde didn't take the time to fully comprehend, simply thanked him and worked to improve.

"i don't want you going out tonight," he'd say, rub his thumb over scott's knuckles as they curl up on the couch. why? he'd ask. "we don't get enough time to ourselves anymore. i wanna spend the night with you." okay, scott says, because he's right, now that he thinks about it; they haven't gone on a date in days, maybe weeks, and with them both busy with work it's been a long while since they'd had a night in to themselves. maybe another time, he thinks, and it's okay.

"you know how horrified anyone else would be if they knew about this? no one else would stay, but i love you, and i always will. you're so lucky to have me." he comforts him after he breaks down, whispers this into his ear as he draws circles into pale skin and pulls shaking limbs farther into him and scott knows he's right. vaguely he remembers old friends, ones he'd met in high school but drifted away from after college, and he knows he's right because he recalls the sympathetic looks in their eyes as they watched him sob but did nothing to help. i know, he whispers, thank you. and he thinks it's okay.

the blonde doesn't notice it at first, too distracted by snide remarks hidden in lovely whispers and insults ignored with roses. no good relationship can work without a bit of compromise, he promises his friends, promises himself, because that's what it is – compromise.

however he is so busy making compromise that he doesn't notice he is the only one.

he begins chipping off bits and pieces of himself, burns them in soft kisses and little "i love you"s that he doesn't notice lost their meaning months ago. if he asks scott to stay the night he does, no longer protests that it will take him longer to get ready in the morning and get to work. if a soft voice whimpers seduction in his ears he doesn't bother informing the other that he isn't in the mood, hasn't been in a while, because he owes him, owes him for the sleepless nights and breakdowns and the days where the blonde isn't-quite-right.

one night they are arguing and scott feels the slap even before it makes contact with his face.

his mind is muddled, filled with thoughts and accusations and defenses but he forgets it all in that moment, can only think, "he hit me."

up until this point scott had promised himself that if anyone were to ever hit him, he'd leave them in a heartbeat. he knows when a relationship begins to become abusive, knows that eventually there will be fear instead of love but he'll be terrified to find help, and he'd convinced himself that if he were ever in that position he'd make the good choice, the right choice.