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When Scott shoots up in his bed, heart pounding, a scream at his lips, he isn’t surprised.
Sure, weeks ago, when the first nightmare hit him, he’d sat curled up as small as possible on his rickety bed, pressed against the headboard as he tried to whittle his panic away while his cabin mates snored on. He’d been pretty damn surprised then.
Now, he’s forced to admit, the nightmares have invited themselves into his head like an uninvited guest. Papi hates uninvited guests, he always threatens them and kicks them out or they leave on their own. Scott wishes he could do the same, but the bad dreams stay stubbornly in every corner of his mind, like leeches.
How can you kick out your innermost darkest thoughts and fears, anyway?
He snorts. Alright, pal, enough with the philosophy.
As he straightens up more in his bed, the sheets around him fall away, exposing his bare arms to the sticky heat in the cabin. Out the window, the moon is still visible in the clear night sky; if he hazard a guess, he’d say it’s about early morning—maybe two or three. Four max. It’s harder to figure out without seeing the stars.
From prior experience, Scott knows trying to go back to sleep after a nightmare is a futile endeavor. Plus he doesn’t think he can close his eyes, even for a second, without the images of sharp white teeth and malicious gleaming eyes flashing behind his eyelids.
A shudder wracks his body. Stupid shark.
Across the cabin, Lightning mumbles something in his sleep—Scott catches “Lightning gonna get that touchdown”— as Scott places his bare feet on the wooden floorboards.
He needs some fresh air. Everything feels like it’s closing in on him. His heart continues to pound a marathon. His hands slip and slide as he stands.
It’s too much.
The floorboards creak as he sneaks out of the cabin, shutting the screened door behind him and abruptly cutting off Brick’s impression of a dying tractor.
The night air is a slight relief from the confined heat in the cabin. At least Scott’s able to gulp in a refreshing breath of fresh air and not choke on how small of a space he’s in. The outdoors is vast, he relishes in it on nights such as these.
Descending down the cabin steps, Scott takes one look at the dark forest, remembers his nightmare, and decides to stick it out for an hour or two on the steps. He doesn’t feel like tempting fate as much right now.
On second thought, he’s definitely tempting fate; that’s what he thinks when he pulls out his newly acquired sharktooth (and the cause of the recurring nightmares as of late) and scratches it lightly against the wooden planks of the steps. Kind of a cruel irony to hold the very object connected to the creature of the disturbing images plaguing his dreams nearly every night. Who doesn’t say Scott isn’t a sucker for pain, just a tad.
He’s in the middle of whittling a nonsensical design on a fallen stick—his number one comfort when he feels turned on his head—when a voice calls from the side.
“Can’t sleep either?”
Scott looks up and around.
At the adjacent cabin, standing by the railing is the silhouette of a familiar gangly guy. Scott can’t pick out many defining features in the gloom, but there’s no need for light when he can easily picture the slightly gelled dark bangs that stick up and the concerned look on the guy’s face that seems to be his default.
Scott can’t recall his name though. Something with an M, he thinks.
He doesn’t want to think though. All he wants to do is sit and let the night air wash away the terrifying images of that dumb shark.
So he retorts, curt and in his best ‘leave me the hell alone’ tone: “What’s it to you, pal?” Making sure to add a heavy sneer to the word ‘pal’ so Gangly wouldn’t get any ideas.
Gangly raises his hands in surrender and Scott hates that too. How it’s just so easy for the fight to leave him, as though Scott isn’t worth the hit. It makes the blood simmer in Scott. He’s supposed to calm down; instead, his heart has started pounding again.
“Just asking, dude. You seem pretty out of it. Nightmare?”
How is this one guy Scott’s never given a second notice before suddenly psychoanalyzing him as well as the so-called fucking ‘aura-obsessed’ Dawn? That makes no sense.
Scott shrugs. Maybe if he shows he’s not interested in a nice chat, Gangly will leave him alone.
No dice.
“You’re Scott, right?” Gangly says after a moment. “I’m Mike.”
Mike.
Scott runs his tongue over the word, lets it sit for a minute. He decides he hates it too. Along with everything else about Nice Guy Mike.
“Are you alright?” Mike asks, sounding all concerned, his brown eyes wide with sympathy, Scott can see even from different cabins. Mike’s leaning against the rail now, his posture a weird mix of casual and tense that’s just as weird as the guy himself. Either way, he’s standing like he’s going to be sticking around for a while, and Scott regrets so, so much not taking the opportunity to walk in the woods. Dealing with the crazy critters in there would be a far better feat than whatever the fuck is happening right now with Mike and his faint dimples that dip into his sharp face whenever his mouth quirks up, and his dumb sympathy that Scott doesn’t fucking need.
Because this is just a fluke. An outlier. He remembers now who Mike is: a random nice guy, a freak with his weird characters, who’ll switch those puppy-eyes of sympathy onto that redhead girl and the twig nerd. His friends.
Not for someone like Scott who’s far from good.
A ball of worms squirms in Scott’s belly, a raging monster chokes his throat. He wants to say something, do anything, that would shatter this moment into a million pieces. He wants to feel the satisfaction of watching Nice Guy Mike crumple and never seek out Scott again. He wants to stop feeling like he’s burning and Mike is water.
Why can’t the stupid guy let Scott burn in peace? Who is he to go off and be a hero? And why can’t Scott just say something?
“Yeah, ‘m peachy. You done being a shirk now?”
“Dude, I’ve seen you sit on the steps of your cabin for the past three nights. You done being a lying asshole now?”
Slowly, Scott turns to face him. Mike holds his gaze for a second before realizing how he sounded.
“Um, I mean—“
And Scott remembers even more. Not more about who Mike is or what’s so interesting about him that leaves Scott curious and disturbed. It’s a moment back in the snow fort challenge. He’d heard and comprehended faintly, in one ear out the other, a loud whisper from the other team: “I think Scott’s psycho”.
He’d dismissed it. He had bigger fish to fry at the time—mainly sabotaging the challenge—so it had slipped his mind. Why should he care what someone from the other team thinks?
Like a switch being flipped, when Mike fired that retort at him, Scott is reminded vividly of that one specific moment. The word psycho resounds in his mind, and now he’s able to attach a face (and a name) to that whisper.
So Nice Guy Mike isn’t always so nice. That knowledge makes him feel strangely vindicated. Like he’s proven that no one—especially freakishly intriguing Mike—can be that nice.
A smaller part of his mind wonders why Mike even cares then if he thinks Scott is a psycho.
Asshole, huh? Says that guy.
“You stalking me?” He retorts because the silence is stretching out for too long, and he has to say something. “Scoping me out for weaknesses?”
He curses not looking at his surroundings before sitting down, but oftentimes his nightmares are so terrifying, he can only focus solely on them.
“What?” says Mike confusedly. “No! I was just…concerned.”
“You don’t sound like it,” Scott mutters.
He doesn’t look up from his position with his forehead in the crook of his crossed elbows, pressing onto the knees of his scuffed jeans, and tries to imagine Mike’s expression; probably that same old frown that slightly tugs down the corners of his mouth; maybe he’s biting his lip too. Scott has no idea how he knows all this considering tonight’s the first time he actually gives the guy a thought.
When Mike speaks up, Scott’s fallen into a half-daze, kind of forgetting he’s still there, kind of expecting him to have already left for the comforts of his cabin.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Scott groans. “What the hell are you even doing out here?”
“I’m outside. You know, in a public area that I have a right to be in. That outside.”
“Well, then, take your outside,” he waves a hand in the opposite direction without looking at Mike, “somewhere else.”
“That doesn’t even make sense, Scott.”
The way Mike says his name—such a simple combination of syllables yet Mike says it so uniquely, with a distinct accent and pronunciation; of course, he has to fuck up Scott’s name too—makes Scott want to pull his hair out.
He should start compiling a list of the things he hates about Mike. Like his gap-toothed smile, his bashful expression, his deep brown eyes, his stupidly heroic concern, and the way he says Scott’s name that makes Scott feel like he’s being burned alive at the stake. Scott hates it all and he wants to spit it in Mike’s face, but he can’t string together the words.
Besides, he despises lists. As much as he says he despises Mike.
“Scott?”
Why won’t he leave him alone?
“I don’t want your pity party,” snaps Scott. His head pulses, a headache creeps up the edges of his temples. Absent-mindedly, he rubs them.
Mike’s staring at him. Eyes narrowed and considering.
Goosebumps dot Scott’s arms despite the air being warm and humid. His heart is beating a mile a minute, he wants to puke. Why can’t Mike look at him the way he usually does? All suspicious-like?
Scott turns away jerkily, rubbing up and down his arms, hoping through sheer force of will that his heart will calm down. He could really use some sleep. It’s got to be the reason why he’s acting like this. He'll sleep off this crazy night.
But no matter how hard he tries, his heart doesn’t get a fucking hint. It races as thoughts pile one on top of the other; images of his nightmare, Mike and his aggravating concern, the smallness of the cabin Scott will have to go back into soon enough, the vastness of the open forest in front of him that’s both his solace and bane, but, most prominently, the flashes of shark teeth lunging toward him, going to bite into him, rip him open-
“Scott! Scott, hey, hey!”
A warm hand falls atop his shoulder, clenching and flexing, grounding him as he simultaneously gasps and reels back, hitting the edge of the step above him.
Brief pain bursts in his lower back, the ridges of his spine protesting as he presses himself farther against the steps in order to stay the fuck away from Mike’s dangerous warm hands.
“Don’t—“ he starts, then stops. Don’t what? Don’t touch me? Don’t leave me? Don’t hurt me? Don’t pity me? Don’t come close to me?
Thankfully, Mike doesn’t focus on his momentary faltering. “Shit, Scott, are you—well, obviously you’re not okay, but you’re alright. Just try to take some deep breaths okay? 4-4-8. Can you do that?”
The images of Fang still stay imprinted behind his eyes. The shark tooth throbs in his palm, he’s clenching it too tightly he can’t loosen up.
“Scott. Scott, breathe with me. Follow my breaths.”
That warmth is back, the hand reaching for his, placing it on a thin chest. Scott feels flannel material, and his fumbling mind recalls yellow flannel pajamas over a lean, thin frame.
His eyes are blurry. Why are they blurry? His chest feels tight. It’s like the aftereffects of the nightmare are hitting him belatedly like a giant mallet whooping his head. His only tether is a stick-rod freak playing shirk with warm hands and a distinct voice.
“4-4-8, you got this, Scott,” comes the voice distantly.
The chest under his shaking hand rises.
“Scott, c’mon, breathe.”
The voice— Mike’s voice—rises and falls too, like his breaths, and Scott grasps onto that. Lets his own chest move to the awkward rhythm of Mike’s voice and chest.
Inhale; 4. Hold; 4. Exhale; 8. Repeat.
Gradually, his vision clears, his racing heart takes a break, and Scott can breathe properly again.
The first thing he sees is Mike’s face.
“Scott?”
“Stop saying my name,” Scott croaks.
Mike’s eyebrows scrunch. “What?”
"My name. You say it weird.”
Mike rolls his eyes. “There we are.”
His hand is still on Scott’s shoulder, heavy and warm. Scott shoves it off.
“I don’t need your pity,” he repeats. “I don’t need your shit.”
A rush of satisfaction runs through him as Mike’s concerned expressions cracks—just a bit, but enough for the annoyance underneath to show. Breaking down Mr. Nice and Freaky’s exterior is fun to watch; it gives Scott chills and heat waves at the same time. Better than having that deadly concerned look directed at him.
“Dude, I just helped you from a literal breakdown, are you serious right now?”
Scott musters up a sneer, which is harder than he expects given he’d been on the edge of a mental breakdown three minutes ago. But Mike’s looking at him like that, all deep eyes and that stupid concerned tick at his mouth; it’s enough motivation. His head still whirls, and Mike’s stare still bears into him, burning him.
Scott lifts his chin, walks into the flames, willingly gets burned. “I know you like playing hero, weirdo, but I don’t need saving.”
Psycho whispers in his mind again. Along with Mike’s newest insult: lying asshole. Which he is, not denying it. So why does it feel…strange to hear it from Mike’s mouth? Exhilarating yet aggravating? Maddening yet satisfying?
Mike straightens, and Scott notices that he’s been crouching all this time, his knees jammed into the hard dirt in ways that must be uncomfortable for people who don’t work on farms.
Even that minor unselfish act makes Scott itch, the fire burning him inside. He hates it, he hates Mike.
“I’m not being a hero,” says Mike. He takes another step back toward his cabin—idly Scott wonders if he’d vaulted over the railing to get to Scott when he’d been having his panic attack—and scuffs his sneakers on the ground. The moon hits his face, casting an angular shadow on his jaw.
He looks like a fallen angel. A devil in disguise. A weirdo freak with a penchant for playing hero.
“I’m trying to help,” Mike continues. “Sometimes that’s all we can do.”
Something in those words, the firm fixedness of them, the utter goodness in the implications, has Scott firing back before he can stop himself: “Not all the time.”
He shouldn’t have opened his mouth. He should’ve let Mike talk his shit and leave him alone. Because now Mike is staring at him again, the same inscrutable look. The fire around Scott heightens in temperature. The humidity is nothing compared to this.
“Everyone deserves to be saved. At least a little.”
With those words of wisdom, Mike turns and walks back to his cabin. Before he enters it, he looks over his shoulder; from here, Scott sees his mouth open, then close. Shaking his head, Mike slips inside, the door clicking shut behind him.
Scott feels like he’s burning again, but this time it feels…warm. It doesn’t hurt.
Scott decides he hates it too and vows to get Mike eliminated before he burns Scott alive like that story of the guy with wings and the sun.
That doesn’t stop him from leaning back on the steps, exhaling slowly, basking in the aftereffects, the warm-but-not-burning glow, if only to keep his nightmares at bay.
He closes his eyes. Tries to recapture it, ingrain it in his memory. Just until the actual sun rises.
Behind his eyelids, the images of sharp teeth and glowing eyes are replaced with warm brown eyes and a sheepish smile.
Somehow he thinks this is worse.
He doesn’t open his eyes though.
Just for a moment.
Let him get burned in the fire that hurts but doesn’t.