#mitchell mueller

Jonas pushes through the heavy front doors of Sellwood High, moving with a crowd of people who push and shove and bump their way to freedom. It’s a Thursday, he hates Thursdays. Such a tease for the weekend. Not like he does anything particularly special, really. Plays video games, practices tricks with Sidney... and lately, waits for Mitch Mueller to text him and whisk him off for a little secret troublemaking. If Jonas wasn’t such a goody two-shoes, he’d probably have much more fun. But he’s getting there.

Like today, he told Dean and Sue he was staying late to tutor a girl from his math class. But in reality, he’s heading to Mitch’s to do their project.

Pretty rebellious, huh?

Jonas spots him in the senior parking lot. The tall boy is hunched over at the waist, staring into the driver’s window of Scratch’s car with a frown, running his long, busted fingers through his hair. He jumps when Jonas bumps his shoulder, his shock quickly turning to the warm, familiar smile which makes Jonas’ heart flutter.

“Doing your hair, huh? You don’t seem like someone who cares about your hair,” Jonas teases.

“I don’t, just... fuckin’ hate when the brown shows through,” Mitch grumbles the last few words under his breath, looking back to the window and tugging at his locks exasperatedly. “Means I gotta dye it soon and I haaaate dyin’ it,” he tosses his head back as he whines, making Jonas giggle. For a second, Jonas gnaws on his lower lip, considering whether or not to say the words lingering right behind his lips. He blurts them out as he meets Mitch’s gaze in the window.

“I- I could do it for you...”

“You could? You’d wanna?” Mitch turns now, straightening. Jonas nods, smiling up and clenching his fists hard to keep his lights at bay as Mitch gives him a toothy grin for the first time that day. “Well shit, then! Scratch, we’re stoppin’ at the store.” Scratch slides off the hood of her beater and excitedly into the driver’s seat. Mitch has no idea that Jonas’ stomach does a cartwheel when he pulls him into the backseat and onto his lap, long arms wrapped loosely around his middle as he chatters away with his friends.

The trailer is quiet when they arrive, stolen box of bleach tossed onto the counter as Mitch rummages through the fridge.

“Watcha want? Soda?” he calls as Jonas stands awkwardly near the sink, glancing around the kitchen. He’s still getting acclimated to Mitch’s living conditions. He just isn’t used to it, a house which doesn’t smell like disinfectant, a house where the bags of chips are left open on the counter, a house with ashtrays on every available surface. It’s not bad. Just different. He’s still glancing around, not answering as Mitch nudges him and presents him with a can, suspiciously lukewarm for coming right from the fridge.

“So... how do you do this?” Jonas asks, and Mitch cocks an eyebrow.

“I thought you knew, you offered.” Jonas starts to blush, stuttering out an apology and feeling positively stupid before Mitch stops him with waving hands. “No, no it don’t matter! I’ll teach ya,” Mitch tears open the box and shakes the contents on the counter. “Usually I just like, put that shit on my hands and like... scrub it through my hair and then... wash it out?”

“Okay, I know I said I didn’t know how to dye hair, but I know that’s not right,” he laughs as Mitch grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. “You should probably sit down near the sink, to wash your hair. Like they do when you get it cut.”

“I’ve... never had my hair cut anywhere but here,” Mitch mumbles, and Jonas’ chest seizes with embarrassment.

“I’ll sh-show you then!” he squeaks, pulling a folding chair away from the table and situating it against the cabinets, motioning for Mitch to sit. The taller boy looks down at the chair, then back to him.

“It’s backwards.”

“No, it’s not,” Jonas huffs, tugging gently at Mitch’s arm. “Just sit.”

“Pushy, pushy,” Mitch mutters, but he’s grinning as Jonas pretends to forget he still has a hand securely around his bicep. Softly, he pushes Mitch’s chest, swallowing thickly and trying to ignore the way Mitch’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Do you have shampoo?”

“Yeah, uh... bathroom. Under the sink,” Mitch’s voice is just a touch cloudier than it had been a moment ago, and Jonas curses himself for noticing it. His fingertips sear where he had pressed them into Mitch’s chest as he shuffles away to retrieve the bottle. Mitch’s face is still pink when he returns and turns the faucet on, running his fingers under the water as he looks down at the taller boy.

“Lean back,” he commands, smirking slightly at how quickly Mitch complies. One sharp eyebrow cocked, questioning, Mitch stares up as Jonas grabs a grubby, crusty dishtowel from near the sink and says, “for if it’s uncomfortable.”

“Nah, s’fine,” Mitch shrugs, but lifts his head to allow Jonas to slip it beneath his neck. Jonas can’t help but let out a shaky breath as he presses his fingers softly to Mitch’s temples and coaxes his head back. Mitch’s jaw clenches and he casts his eyes down as he starts to go red. Every time they’re together, boundaries are pushed; lines are blurred between study partners and friends and something else he can’t identify. Mitch is full of firsts for him: the first time he smoked, the first time he skipped school, the first crush on a guy, the first person he’s touched like... this.

It’s intimate. He feels powerful, because usually Mitch is the one touching, but now he’s melting beneath his hands. With just light brushes of his fingertips he threads his way through Mitch’s hair. He’s flushed bright red as he lets the warm water flow over Mitch’s scalp, squirting shampoo onto his hair and beginning to lather it with calm, gentle strokes. His eyes flicker down to his friend’s face.

How long had Mitch’s eyes been closed? His shoulders are still slightly rigid, arms crossed tightly over his chest, but his face is free of any tension. Jonas keeps his fingers working as he scans over Mitch’s face, silently praying the boy won’t open his eyes. He looks so peaceful.

Jonas has never noticed how thick and dark Mitch’s eyelashes are. His eyelids flutter, amber eyes moving beneath them, and Jonas is enraptured. A lattice of faint blue and purple veins decorate his lids, smooth and white up to his eyebrows. Jonas swallows as he notices a tiny line of discoloration, a scar, underneath Mitch’s right brow. His eyes continue to trace down over Mitch’s cheeks. Just under the skin, faded and old and nearly unnoticeable, are a few stray acne scars and pockmarks he’s never been close enough to make out until now. There’s a slight stubble over Mitch’s lip and near his jaw, the light brown hair barely visible, but Jonas grins anyway.

Mitch actually shaves around that pube-y beard of his. Gosh that’s... really cute.

“Is this what I been missin’ out on, not gettin’ haircuts?” Mitch murmurs suddenly, causing Jonas to jump. “S’good,” Mitch hums out a noise of pure contentment and Jonas can hear his own heartbeat in his ears. He rinses the suds from Mitch’s hair and fumbles the gloves on.

“I’m gonna put this conditioner stuff in, then do the bleach. Is that okay?” Mitch hums once more in concession, and Jonas swears when he starts to run the conditioner through Mitch leans into his touch. In a moment of uncharacteristic bravery Jonas presses his fingers onto Mitch’s head, applying light pressure as he strokes through his hair, and Mitch’s sigh is like music. He rinses the conditioner and fumbles with the applicator, carefully squirting the thick dye onto Mitch’s dark roots. Slowly, carefully, he begins to run the bleach through his hair, unsure if he’s doing it right, but he takes the fact that Mitch hasn’t protested yet as a good sign. He’s cautious to avoid Mitch’s dark, shaved sides before the tall boy’s body shifts suddenly, and Jonas yelps.

“Hold still, I don’t want to-” He snaps his mouth shut quickly as he looks down. Mitch’s head is lulled back, his arms have fallen away from his chest which is rising and falling steadily beneath his once-white tank top.

He’s asleep.

Jonas inhales sharply. You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to tell Mitch doesn’t sleep often. The dark bags under his eyes are the strongest indication. But if you know Mitch, or watch him as much as Jonas does, you can see the exhaustion which permeates his limbs and lips and walk. His heart warms with pride as he slowly takes his hands away from Mitch’s hair, starting a timer for the dye. As strange as it is, and he knows it’s strange, he leans against the counter to watch Mitch’s chest rise and fall with even, slow breaths.

Mitch is such a wild flurry of movement and energy that Jonas has never gotten to... admire him like this. The sharp prominence of his collarbone enchants Jonas and distresses him all at the same time. He’s glad he has gloves on, or else he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from bringing his fingers to that skin and running across it. He bets it feels paper-thin and smooth stretched over the bone, almost straining. From afar Mitch is thin, strong, sinewy, but up close here Jonas can see the beginnings of emaciation. Beneath his chest, his ribs are starting to become obvious, something Jonas notes is definitely new. The thinness of his wrists, the gauntness of his face begin to spin into a new light, and Jonas stiffens. He had seen the fridge, and though there hadn’t been much, there had still been food in it. That day in the bathroom, when he’d heard Mitch, he tried to write it off as something else.

But here staring down at the unnatural sharpness of Mitch’s hipbones peaking out above the hem of his boxers, he can’t pretend any longer. He knows she shouldn’t, but he carefully takes a glove off and slowly brings a hand to Mitch’s head. Pressing his palm into the side of the boy’s long face, he slowly caresses a thumb along Mitch’s eyebrow. He freezes when Mitch leans into his hand, but he doesn’t stir any further, so Jonas continues his soft strokes.

“Mitch,” his voice is too low to even be a whisper, but he wants to say something. He just doesn’t know what. I’m worried, maybe? Can I help? might be better. You deserve to be happy. Or I want you to be happy. Maybe even I want to make you happy. Could I ever? He can’t say any of it, though, so he just continues to rub him soothingly. Things begin to float, then. Only the light things. His free glove rises off the counter. Crumpled paper towels near the sink, a used styrofoam plate, half of an old-looking cookie drift upwards. Jonas can’t help but laugh softly as they begin to spin lazily, orbiting around them. Little items continue to float up, joining the orbit around he and Mitch as he cradles the sleeping boy’s face.

His heart pulls as he gazes down. Scary, angry, mean Mitch Mueller is no longer the front he puts on for anyone, and Jonas is pretty sure he’s one of the only people to ever have seen him like this. God, he looks so vulnerable, so small for someone who’s so tall and long. He looks gentle and soft and warm and serene.

He looks beautiful.

Just as Jonas inhales, realizes he’s so far gone into something he told Sidney was a crush but is now recognizing is infatuation, the timer on his phone begins to ring and the atmosphere breaks. He pulls his hand away instantly as the items drop to the ground, making small noises as Mitch jolts upward.

“Shit,” he grumbles as he rubs his eyes, resting his elbows on his knees. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Yeah,” Jonas’ voice is shaky, almost guilty, but Mitch doesn’t seem to notice. “I still have to, uh... I still have to wash the bleach out.” Mitch grunts and leans back, arms back to being crossed over his chest, a protective barrier around himself. He doesn’t melt under Jonas’ touch as he had before, he stays rigid with his eyes screwed shut as Jonas works. Mitch’s hair is light again, more blonde in some areas than in others and a little blotchy, but for a crappy box dye and his first time Jonas feels pretty darn good about it.

Still, he can’t ignore the way his heart drops when Mitch doesn’t relax under his hands. He’d give his whole life for one more moment of that vulnerability, that moment when it felt like Mitch was almost his. So with quaking fingers, craving just one more touch, he brings his thumb back to Mitch’s eyebrow. Mitch jolts and peeks an eye open, but the smaller boy doesn’t stop. He runs the digit slowly, carefully over the scar.

“I’ve never noticed this.”

“Yeah, got it from Freddie. He thought he had pretty decent aim when he’d toss me into those pools but one time he- he didn’t,” Mitch snorts and Jonas laughs softly in response, not taking his hand away. “Thank fuckin’ Christ it ain’t any bigger, though. I don’t need my face lookin’ even more fucked up than it already does.” With those words he leans forward, away from Jonas’ touch, and grabs the towel to dry his hair. Jonas can’t help but notice the way Mitch’s spine rises from his back when he bends, and though his hands itch to stroke against it he pulls them away, back by his sides.

“Hey, this looks pretty damn good, Spots! I’m impressed,” Mitch is staring into the glass oven door, fumbling with his still-wet locks.

“Yeah, not so bad for my first time,” Jonas hums, watching Mitch’s long fingers run through his hair and longing to replace them with his own.

“What I’m hearin’ is that you’re gonna do even better next time?” Mitch turns to look at him, face plastered with that smug, crooked smirk he puts on whenever he flirts. Jonas smirks back. He takes a step forward, his knee pressing into Mitch’s thigh as he threads his fingers through the taller boy’s hair. Mitch’s mouth drops open in surprise and his eyes widen, but he doesn’t make a noise. Jonas strokes over his scalp, messily brushing Mitch’s hair into it’s usual slicked-back style.

“Mhmm,” he hums as his fingers work, “It’s a little patchy, next time I’ll make it more even,” he cocks his head to the side, feigning innocence, pretending that his fingers aren’t trembling, pointedly ignoring the bright red blush on Mitch’s cheeks. As he continues to style Mitch’s hair, the taller boy’s sharp shoulders ease. He rests his elbows in his knees, his body slumping with relaxation, and Jonas warms.

Someday, maybe Mitch won’t lean away from his touch. He may be able to trace his fingers over that sharp collarbone, over his spine, over that little scar and the stubble he’d never known existed. Finally, Mitch’s downcast eyes slip shut as he leans ever so slightly into Jonas.