Sorry guys. I know this was supposed to be cute, but it kinda went a dark direction.

Funny story: I wrote this before Pentatonix's cover of "Halelujah," so it's pure chance that Scott was singing that song in the last chapter. It was the one I was thinking of at the time.

It was morning again, and Scott pulled himself to one elbow. He stayed there a few moments, blinking himself into consciousness, and rubbed his eyes with the side of one index finger. He first noticed that he was wet. Not terribly so, just a little damp, but enough to make him puzzled. He then noticed Mitch's absence.

"Mitch?" He touched the empty plane of the bed beside him, noting that it too was damp. It wasn't water, and it didn't smell like urine. What was it? He pinched the fabric on the front of his shirt and brought it to his nose. It smelled like Mitch.

Sweat?

"Mitch?" He repeated, extricating his legs from the covers, "Where are you?" He shouldn't be worried. This happened all the time. He was probably grabbing coffee. But he wasn't well enough to leave the house, was he? When no response came, Scott's bare feet made sounds like Wyatt's did on the wood floor as he made his way into the living room. He was chilled as the air conditioning dried the moisture on his clothes, but he didn't notice. He was filled with a rising sense of concern. Was he okay?

The couches were bare, with only a few scattered objects they'd left the night before. None of the lights were on, and the house seemed eerily empty as he made his way to the kitchen. Still, there was no one. It was just as empty and quiet as the living room had been. He made his way to his own bedroom, which had been empty for a few nights now, but there was no Mitch.

Finally, he entered the bathroom, after noticing that the door was propped open on… Something. It was Mitch's knee where he sat, his arms folded and his eyes focused on something far away.

"Hey, you. Feeling okay?" He leaned against the door frame.

Mitch turned to him, his eyes taking a moment to focus on his face, "Weird. I feel lightheaded."

"What're you doing in here?"

"I was going to take a shower, but I had to sit down because I got too dizzy." He was too subdued, too quiet, his eyes closing as if calming an oncoming dizzy spell.

Scott didn't like it. "Hey. Let's get back to bed. I'll help you take a shower if you feel like you need it, but you need sleep. It's early." Then a thought occurred to him, "how long have you been awake?"

A shrug, "An hour? It was about three."

"It's six thirty. You been sitting here all that time?" Scott knelt beside him, "The floor's so cold, and you're sweating even worse." He suddenly had a rush of anxiety, and touched Mitch's brow, "Come on."

Mitch tried, but fell back on one elbow, "I don't know what's wrong with me."

Uh oh.

"Here," Scott slid his arms under Mitch's knees and behind his back, then hoisted him up in his arms, "You're probably dehydrated. I'll get you some water." It was more of a hail Mary than a diagnosis. He prayed there wasn't something seriously wrong with him.

Mitch leaned his forehead into Scott's neck and clasped his hands around his shoulders, letting him carry his small, weak body back to the comfort of his bed. He didn't know why, but the way he was cradled, secure in Scott's arms, made him feel at home. Like everything was okay. The strong, broad shoulders and the taut muscles reminded him of when his dad used to carry him in from the car when he pretended to be asleep as a child. They reached the bed and Scott started to stoop to place him amid the sheets, but Mitch inhaled quickly, "No."

"What do you mean?" Scott stopped.

"I don't want you to stop. Let's just stay like this a little longer." Mitch realized that his demand may have seemed strange, but Scott sat cross legged on the bed and adjusted Mitch so he was in his lap.

"Okay, Mitchy. I'll stay as long as you need me to."

Mitch smiled as he felt the pressure of what must have been Scott's lips in his hair. It was comforting. Sweet.

But Scott was terrified. He needed to put Mitch down so he could get him hydrated, check his temp again, and call the doctor's office. He resolved to take him to the ER if this got any worse, and his head was running at top speed, thinking a million thoughts. But he didn't want to let go of Mitch's body. The way he was lying against him, fitting perfectly in his lap like a puzzle piece, and Scott didn't want to end it. Maybe just a few more moments like this? The office didn't open 'till 8 anyway.

Then something occurred to him: Mitch usually was the first to realize he needed to go to the doctor. He couldn't stand being sick and always made sure he was stocked up to the gills on antibiotics. Even if all he had was a cold, he was usually stressed about strep or the flu or bronchitis. But he hadn't said anything this time. Why the hell hadn't he said anything?

"Mitch? I need to set up a doctor's appointment. I don't know what's wrong with you."

"I'm fine." Came a quiet murmur.

"No you're not. I don't want to scare you, but I don't think you're fine."

"I think I just need to sleep more and drink something." He relaxed even more into Scott, his breathing slowing to a sleepy rhythm.

Scott instinctively touched his forehead, sensing for any hint of his temperature growing, "Hey. You need to let me call the doctor."

But he seemed to be asleep.

Scott pulled his laptop off the nightstand and balanced it on one of his crossed knees, his arms reaching around Mitch to type. "Adult Fevers"

A million articles came up and he clicked the first one: "Fever in adults: know when to see a doctor"

"Fever occurs when the body's immune response is triggered by pyrogens (fever-producing substances). Pyrogens usually come from a source outside the body and, in turn, stimulate the production of additional pyrogens inside the body…." Blah blah blah, he continued scrolling, his eyes scanning for something he could use, "a temperature at which adults should seek medical care...High-grade fevers range from about 103 F-104"

Mitch was 102 last night. Scott couldn't feel a difference with his fingers, but he wished he could grab the thermometer without moving Mitch. Just to be sure. Why the hell had he left it on the bookshelf?

Finally his conflicted feelings picked a side and he gently moved Mitch in the bed, being careful as he placed his head on the pillow. Retrieving the little device, he nudged at Mitch's shoulder, "Hey. I'm gonna take your temperature."

When no response came except an indignant groan, he gave up trying to get it in his mouth, and instead pushed his hand under the neckline of his shirt and placed the end of the thermometer under his arm. That worked right? A quick google consult affirmed it.

The alarm went off and he removed it, holding his breath as he watched the little numbers, praying and hoping and… He let the breath out in a gust.

It wasn't okay.

104.6