Hello all!

I recognize the inaccuracies in the story; They have been left out for a reason (ie. The absence of Mitch's family. Of course in real life they would be present, but I don't feel confident writing them into the story line, as I don't know them well enough to accurately portray them; Realistically, only family members would be allowed to visit someone in dire medical straits, but for the purpose of the story, Scott and Kirstie get to break the rules).

Another point I feel I should mention: There are some behaviors that may seem shocking or "over the top" (Meltdowns, etc.), but keep in mind: The realistic reactions of someone going through a trauma are somewhere in the ball park. I did my homework.

The events that actually caused this moment in the story start on Chapter 3, so if you prefer, one may read it in the order 3, 1, 2, 4, 5, etc.

And lastly, I don't own the image of Pentatonix, nor do I own their bodies (which may be maimed in my story), nor their clothing (which may also be ripped, stained, or otherwise maimed in my story). This is purely a work of fiction.

Love you all, enjoy, and let me know what you think! Any feedback is welcome.

xxxx

Kirstie's hands were shaking so hard, and her sobs were ragged and quiet. Scott, who was seated beside her, offered no comforting words or condolences; he only stared ahead into the middle space, his mind occupied with rolling thoughts.

Things kept coming back to her, no matter how hard she tried to force them down, and another picture flashed, making her gasp back a sob. It made her chest ache with a throbbing, pulsing, miserable pain.

A flash: His head cradled on her lap, and her hand raking through his short hair.

She shook her head, refusing to think of the events of the night; she feared she might unravel.

But no. Another picture of the blood, blossoming from his chest and staining his white shirt crimson like some sick artist's work. The blood was so red, redder than blood and more like paint.

The same blood was brownish now, where it stuck under her nails, in her cuticles, blotched on her sleeves. Kirsten picked at it furiously, wishing it would go away and that this nightmare could be over. The hospital waiting room where she trembled, awaiting the news, was cheerfully painted in pinks and purples. It was sickening, the brightness churning with her emotions and fear.

"Oh God." She stood. Although she'd abandoned her platform heels under her chair and had the stability of supporting her weight on her bare feet, she was almost too shaky to make her way to the restroom. It too was much too bright, almost glowing with neon colors that reflected the fluorescent lights. Thank God it was empty though. Kirstie knelt in the nearest stall, feeling the sick rising up in her throat, and barely had time to scoop back her hair in one fist before it came in a burning, stinking torrent. She flushed the toilet before she even opened her eyes, knowing that seeing it would make it worse.

She saw him again: his blank expression staring into the sky as she held him in her arms and the life drained out of him. There was so much blood, more than she'd ever seen before, gushing from between Scott's fingers as he fought to staunch the flow, and dissolving into the puddles on the wet ground. Why was the blood full of bubbles? And so red?

Kirstie dry heaved into the bowl, the sound of the tank refilling reminding her of the puddles. The running water on the concrete. The rain making popping noises on their discarded umbrellas. The water soaking Mitch's shirt so she could see his tattoos. The water on the ground turning red.

"He shot him," Kirstie whispered in disbelief, "He shot Mitch." Tears came in hot streams, and she leaned back against the door, her feet curling together and her hands clutched to her chest.

"Kirstie?" A gentle voice came from the door, "You okay?" Scott.

"Why did he do it?" She slammed her fist into the aluminum wall, making the toilet paper tail wag from the dispenser.

Then the worst image of all, burning behind her lids when she blinked. Mitch's breath came in wheezes and she could feel his heartbeat getting slower where her hand met his neck. Then he'd convulsed, a spray of the bright stuff hitting Kirstie's shirt and staining it. Blood was coming from his mouth, pouring from one corner in a stream and bubbling between his teeth. She remembered some of the stuff she'd said, things like "Hold on, Mitch," and "Jesus Christ, look at me!" But something that kept repeating over and over in her head were his quiet words. He'd looked into her eyes, his dark brown ones holding a kind of raw terror that she'd never seen, and he'd said past the blood, "I don't want to leave you."

"Kirstie." Scott pushed the door, moving her frail, exhausted body, "God, Kirstie." He collapsed to his knees and gripped her shoulders, "Hey. It's okay."

"No it's not!" She slumped into his chest, letting out a sob as his arms closed around her. "I don't want to leave you."

"What?"

"That's what he said. Before they took him. I don't want to leave you. Scott, he's gonna die. That man shot him and he's gonna die."

"No he won't. Mitch will make it. He's strong."

She felt so impossibly helpless, and knew that Mitch was somewhere in the hospital, unconscious, bloody, and surrounded by men in blue. She imagined those paddle things they used in the dramas, pressed up against Mitch's chest, shocking life back into his dying heart. She imagined him jerking with the electric shock, and that red beeping zigzag flatlining. He was probably covered in wires and tubes while men in masks shouted "Charging… Clear" over and over.

"He's gone."

"Don't say that. Don't you dare say that. Mitch will be fine." He could feel her shaking, and rubbed her back in a comforting gesture. He felt the same as she did; he was almost crippled with shock and fear. The only difference was, he didn't want to show it. He had to be strong for them both.

And so he held her there, trembling and sobbing, on the cold bathroom floor, until news came.

xxxx

"He's stable. You can see him now if you like."

Kirste just stood and stared at the doctor, then nodded slowly. "Is he gonna be okay?"

"He's had it rough. Ruptured lung, blood loss, and the effects of shock. He won't be awake for a while, so you won't be able to talk to him, but I think you need to see that he's okay."

"When will he wake up?"

"In a day or two. The pain would be unbearable if we woke him up now, so we're keeping him under until we can kind of establish things. Keep him stable and see if he's improving the way we plan."

She only looked at him, so he continued.

"Go ahead and see him. He needs you there for him. Just be prepared; it isn't pretty."

xxxx

The door swung open in a kind of eerie silence, revealing a dim, lonely room. The walls were painted a clean, baby blue, and the curtains and chairs were a deeper, navy blue. There were too many machines clustered in the center of the room, beeping and whizzing and making all kinds of mechanical noises. All were attached to a single form.

Mitch.

He was lying amid the sheets, his legs hidden under blankets. His eyes were closed in drugged sleep, the lids bruised and pink in contrast to his pasty skin. Mitch's chest was exposed, and Kirsite could see where each wire and tube connected with his body. One arm was dotted with tape holding needles in place, and the other had a blood pressure cuff around it. On the stand beside the bed, an abundance of bags hung like water balloons, the tubes entering his arms and dripping the clear fluid into his broken system. One of the bags was black, and the stuff was entering his body through one of the raised veins on his forearm. Blood. There was a thick layer of gauze and tape around his ribcage, and she could see a dark spot over the bullet wound where he was starting to bleed through it.

A thick, white pipe, suspended in the air over his face, disappeared between slightly parted lips and deep into his chest, supplying his mangled lungs with oxygen. Of course he couldn't breathe on his own, Kirstie felt sick. She'd never expected this. Mitch wasn't Mitch. It was just his body, detached from the world, trapped in unnatural sleep. Her Mitch was probably somewhere far away. Her best friend; she longed to hear him laugh, see him smile, make some witty remark, or fix his now unruly hair.

There was another tube, a clear one this time, entering his body through the side of his ribcage, and more black stuff was visible, oozing through the tube and into a bag that was hidden beneath the covers. To drain the blood out, she guessed.

She approached, then slid her hand into his limp one. He was so impossibly pale, his skin almost the same shade as the pillow. She squeezed his hand.

"Hi, Mitch," Scott joined her at the side of the bed, "Good to see you're okay."

Of course talking did no good, but Kirstie did anyway, "Mitch," she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed one of the bat tattoos, "Do me a favor and get through this."

There was fake breath, moving his bare chest up and down in a slow rhythm, the machine hissing as it pumped air between exhales. She could hear a little bit of his voice as he exhaled. Mitch's familiar breaths made her almost ache with longing to hear him sing, speak, tell her it would be alright, anything from the old Mitch who now lay broken and bleeding and horribly silent. What if "I don't want to leave you" were the last words she'd hear him say in his beautiful, high pitched voice? She wouldn't believe it. Things would be okay. He hadn't died on the table, or in her arms in the rain. He'd make it.

She examined the chipping black polish he always wore, coating his perfectly shaped nails and matching the tattoos where they stood out against his white skin. "He'll be okay," She touched the side of his face, her thumb gently rubbing the curve of his eyebrow, and let the feelings of relief flood her, relief that he was here, in this bed, here warm under her hand, here alive, "He'll be okay."

"He will be." Scott sat on the mattress and put a hand on Mitch's knee. They both shared a glance, then fell into silence, just glad to be with Mitch again, and glad he was still breathing.