by A. M. Rose
And in so many ways, his apartment reminded him of the treehouse. Mason still liked throw cushions, candles and lights everywhere. He still liked to be surrounded by softness and warmth.
The room he woke up in was a small living room, connected to an even smaller kitchen through an arch. On the opposite end of the kitchen was a narrow, short hallway with three doors. The first one to the right was Mason’s room. That much he could remember. The other two he didn’t have the chance to look into, but one had to be a bathroom, so he tiptoed over.
He peeked into the first room and found a tiny guest bedroom, bed made perfectly with deep green bedding and dark wood furniture lining the walls. He closed the door and rushed to the last door, finding the bathroom and doing his business as quick as he could.
He flushed and washed his hands, spotting a bottle of mouth wash and thanking the heavens when he swirled it in his mouth and got rid of the alcohol-induced smell wafting from between his lips.
Feeling better, he found himself wondering if he should duck out or wait for Mason to wake up to thank him for putting up with his sorry drunk ass last night. He knew Mason had work in the morning, so he could nap for another couple of hours and then leave with him, but he didn’t want to make things awkward between them. Mason had unwritten boundaries, and Drew was trying to respect that as they figured out being friends again.
But… he’d catch the look in Mason’s eyes sometimes, he’d see him smile at him as if he had forgotten the bad blood between them, and it would be exactly like it was all those years ago. When Mason looked at him like he was his whole world. He didn’t recognize it then. But he did now. Now when it was too late, he knew it wasn’t just a crush back then. He had to respect Mason’s wishes though and leave it to rest in the past.
With that in mind, he decided to write him a note and leave before he woke up.
He turned off the lights and went back to the living room, locating a small pad of paper and a pen on the coffee table. He was thinking about what to write as if it was the most important thing in his life. He didn’t leave a note when he left Mason sleeping a decade ago. He never explained. He didn’t say goodbye, so this time, it was like a do-over.
A whimper startled him just as he was about to write the first line. He frowned and focused to hear what it was, but the apartment was silent again. He shrugged and went back to the task at hand when he heard it again. This time louder. Frightened. And it was coming from Mason’s bedroom.
He jumped to his feet and ran to his door, leaning against it.
He could hear the rustling of bedsheets and Mason whimpering, crying out. He sounded distressed and scared, and Drew ran a nervous hand through his hair wondering what he was supposed to do. He wanted to help. Desperately wanted to go in and comfort Mason until he was calm again, but it wasn’t his place…
A loud scream decided for him. He rushed in, uncaring about the noise he was making as he sat on the edge of the bed next to Mason and cupped his shoulder gently.
“Wake up, Mase…” he called out, but the smaller man didn’t seem to hear him. He continued thrashing, head turning left and right and his crying getting louder and louder with each passing moment.
“No… stop…” Mason cried, and Drew shook him again, heart breaking at how scared he sounded. How small and fragile he looked.
“Come on, Mason. Wake up for me.” He shook his shoulder more firmly, and this time it worked. Mason jumped up, smacking his hand away and leapt off the bed, back hitting the wall and hands spread in front of him protectively.
“Mason?” Drew asked, shocked at how frightened he looked as he whipped his head around the room as if trying to see where the danger was coming from. Drew turned towards him, not getting up or making any sudden moves. “It’s me. It’s Drew. You’re okay.”
Mason’s breathing was heavy and labored, a light sheen of sweat was visible on his forehead, and he was shaking. God, he was trembling so much Drew wanted him in his arms more than anything. He wanted to protect him, and he didn’t even know what from.
Minutes passed, he kept repeating that it was him, that he was safe, that nobody would hurt him, and slowly, Mason seemed to come out of it. He dropped his arms down, slumped against the wall and let a few tears roll down his cheeks.
“Mason?” he asked again, and this time Mason looked up, face comically surprised to see him sitting there.
“Drew?” he breathed out.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he confirmed, and before the words were out completely, Mason rushed towards him, slinking onto his lap and wrapping his arms around his neck. He was shaking still, scared and confused. Drew wished he felt any different, but he had no idea what was happening.
He held him tight and ran his hands up and down his back as he waited for Mason to gain control of himself. Eventually he seemed to calm down enough to pull his head away from Drew’s neck and look up at him.
“Sorry…” he whispered, trying to get off him, but Drew was having none of it. Pulling one of the blankets from the bed around Mason’s shoulders, he cocooned them into a little blanket mountain and cupped Mason’s cheeks in his hands.
“What happened?” he asked, and Mason tore his eyes away, fingers wrapped tightly into each other.
“Nightmare…” he said with a dismissive shrug, but it didn’t sound like it was just that. It didn’t look like that either.
“Don’t do that,” he warned.
Mason frowned. “Do what?”
“Hide that you’re scared. You always do that,” Drew said, and Mason looked almost angry at that.
“How would you know?” he bit back, and the words hurt, but Drew knew it was said out of fear, not because Mason wanted to hurt him.
“I knew you pretty well way back when. Some things are set in stone,” he said, weathering the storm.
Mason shook his head. “I’m not hiding. It was a bad dream,” he insisted.
“Do you have them a lot?”
“Sometimes. More lately.”
“The same one or different ones every time?” Drew asked. He didn’t know much about dreams or the glances Mason had, but he wanted to keep him talking. Getting it out would help. He, at least, knew that much.
“Different dreams but…”
“But?”
“Always of the same person.”
Drew’s brow pinched. “Who is it?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him before,” he said before closing his eyes, a pained expression settling on his face. “He’s hurt. Every time I dream of him, he’s hurt. And it keeps getting worse.”
“Are you sure it’s a dream and not a glance?” Drew asked, and Mason tucked himself further into his arms, cold nose finding way into his neck again.
“I thought so. I've had glances at a distance but never of people I haven’t seen before. And my power isn’t all that impressive. Just tiny, everyday things. I don’t… if… if this is a glance, I don’t know what to do. He needs help, and I don’t know who he is. Or where he is… I can’t…” he worked himself up again, and Drew needed him calm.
“Hey… look at me,” he coaxed, and Mason lifted his eyes up, the dark circles under them now making much more sense to Drew. “Is there someone you can talk to about this?”
He watched Mason think for a moment before he shrugged.
“I don’t want to worry anyone. It’s probably nothing, and I’m just overreacting,” he said and Drew nodded.
“Maybe it is nothing. And maybe it’s something, and someone could help you figure out what it is. Isn’t that what we’re doing for me?” he asked.
“It’s different…” Mason tried, but Drew cut him off.
“It really isn’t. Something is happening, and you need answers. Now think… is there someone who can help you find them?”
“Orson could…” Mason suggested after a while, and Drew nodded.
“There we go, Helen had glances too, right?” Drew said, remembering Orson’s late wife and the fact that she al
ways seemed to know what someone’s grade would be on a test and when someone would get a parking ticket.
“Yeah… he… he knows quite a lot about it… I just…” he trailed off, looking away.
“Just what?” Drew asked, taking a chance and wrapping a hand tighter around Mason’s waist to pull him closer. It was messing with his head having him sit on his lap, curled up into him, seeking warmth and comfort from him. It made him think he had the right to hope for more.
“I don’t want to worry anyone,” he repeated.
“Mason…”
“Everyone has shit going on, and I don’t want to make them worry because I had a bad dream.” He was shutting down again, playing tough and acting like he could handle everything by himself.
“And they care about you. Sage, Ben, Orson… they all care and they’d want to know there’s something happening. I…”
“You what?” Mason whispered looking into his eyes. He looked so vulnerable, as if he was putting his whole heart on display. Drew supposed it was the aftermath of his nightmare that made him act more needy and open than he would have allowed himself in broad daylight, but he wanted to say it. He wanted him to know.
“I care,” he said softly, looking at Mason to gauge his reaction as he brought his hand up to cup his cheek.
Blue eyes looked up into his, and for a split second, Mason was looking at him like he used to.
“Drew…”
“I care so much. And I want to help you. Just say the word… whatever you need…” he said, feeling braver when darkness was wrapped around them, and they could hide behind it at least a little. He ran the backs of his fingers over Mason’s cheeks, looking into his eyes, willing him to see just how important he was to him.
His fingertips touched the fringe of his eyelashes, and he noticed they were still damp and clumped together. It was hard to see in the dark, but Drew would bet money that his pale cheeks were flushed red and creased from sleep.
He glanced down at Mason’s lips, dry and a little chapped but still the most sensual lips he had seen on another person, and he couldn’t help but lean a tiny bit closer. He could feel Mason’s breath on his face. He could feel his tiny body in his arms, and he was reminded, once again, how right this felt.
The softest brush of dry skin against his lips put a stop to every thought he had.
Mason was there, coiling closer to him, framing his face with his cold palms. He was stealing the breath from his lungs, and Drew was happy to let him. He’d let him do it a million times over, steal everything he owned if it meant having him close, kissing him. He lost touch with reality and pushed closer, deepening the kiss.
He ran his tongue over Mason’s lips, begging for entrance, but before it was granted, Mason was off his lap and out of his arms. He had his fingers over his lips and the blanket pooled around his ankles when he stood up. Drew was breathless, aching from the loss of him.
“Mason…”
“I’ll talk to Orson…” Mason said, turning his back to Drew and turning a small lamp next to his bed on. The warm yellow light spread through the room and broke the magic darkness had cast over them. Mason’s arms were wrapped tightly around his torso, and if Drew realized anything about this new Mason, it was that it was a clear sign he was shutting the world out.
“If there’s anything I can do…” he said softly, standing up from the edge of the bed.
“I… I’ll let you know,” Mason said, and though he didn’t sound so sure he’d actually do it, the weight lifted off Drew’s shoulders slightly. He chose to believe he was telling the truth, and that he really would come to him if he needed anything.
“Thank you… I need…” he started but shook his head and left it unsaid because it felt like maybe it was too much. “I’ll get out of your hair. Thank you for last night.”
He started towards the door, knowing he had overstayed his welcome. But he couldn’t help but feel that, like every time he left Mason, his heart remained with him.
“Wait!” Mason called out, and he turned, hope blossoming in his chest.
“Yeah?” he asked, and Mason tried to give him a smile, but it looked pained and forced. It served well to deflate whatever hope he’d built up.
“What do you need?” As usual, Mason wouldn’t let him get away with leaving things unsaid. He should have known.
“I need you to be okay.”
“Pops, it’s me,” Mason called out as he let himself inside the small apartment using his old key.
He toed off his shoes and went about the usual task of removing the many, many layers of clothes winter made him wear. He wished for a millionth time he was any good at domestic magic so he could spell himself warm like Sage did with his food. But after trying it once and turning his snuggly coat into a jacket so cropped it barely reached his belly button, he gave up on it and just layered up.
As he unzipped the final hoody he was wearing, his eyes drifted over to the hallway wall. It was almost completely covered with framed photos that never failed to make Mason smile. They were the worst kinds of photos a person could have possibly chosen to frame, and yet, Orson loved them. He claimed that the perfectly centered, posed photos where everyone wore perfect little smiles weren’t capturing the moments he wanted immortalized. It was those that were blurry with movement, off-centered with too-big smiles and thumbs covering the lens that created memories. Because, as he said, if you truly lived the moment, you didn’t have the time to think about how to make a perfect photo. You just lived. And someone happened to catch a snippet of it.
Mason smiled looking at the photos. And he smiled even wider thinking of how much Drew hated them. The artist in him dying every time Orson added a new crime against photography to his wall.
“Mason, is that you?” he heard Orson shout from the direction of his balcony, and he snorted.
“Acquired any more kids since the last time I saw you?” Mason teased as he walked further into the apartment.
“Well, it’s been so long, and I’m a lonely old man… I need someone to help me cope,” Orson said as Mason walked onto the balcony. The old man slumped dramatically into the chair, which was a feat given he was fast approaching the shape of a perfect circle. He had his fishing gear in front of him, and he was in the process of loosening the tension on his reels and wiping them all with dry cloths before putting them away in boxes. Fishing season seemed to have finally finished for him.
“I saw you three days ago for lunch,” Mason said, sitting in the other chair on the balcony. Years ago, Orson put glass floor to ceiling windows to close the balcony off and give them a lovely little breakfast nook. The sun glaring off the glass always made it light and warm. Mason loved it.
“I could have died and been eaten by my cat in three days,” he said, clutching at imaginary pearls.
“You don’t even have a cat,” Mason said, trying his best to keep the laughter in.
“I feed a stray down the street. She’d notice me gone and come looking for food.”
“Well, she’d find enough food for a year.”
“Are you calling me fat?” Orson exclaimed, patting his round stomach with a gleeful smile on his face.
“Yes, I am. There was a large pile of delivery boxes in the bin outside. Know anything about it?”
“Sure, those are mine…” he said with a shrug.
Mason frowned. “Pops…”
“I’m fine, kid. Just been feeling meh about cooking so I indulged a bit,” he said with a smile.
“Fine. I’ll let it slide this time. But I will be calling Dr. Davison and asking about your health. If I hear you have so much as a runny nose…” He made a threatening I’m watching you gesture with his fingers. Orson tipped his head back and let out a booming laugh.
“Terrifying. Truly,” Orson deadpanned when he managed to get his laughter under control. He put away his fishing gear and turned to Mason again. “How about I prove to you I can still cook. Got time for lunch?”
“Is it fish?
” Mason wrinkled his nose pretending he didn’t like it.
“Yes,” Orson said, playing into the game that had been a running joke since the moment they met; Mason pretending not to be a fan of a certain type of food and then chomping through enough of said food to feed three grown men.
“I guess that’s fine,” he eventually said in the most graceful voice he could muster. It earned him a dirty cloth to the face.
Orson walked back in, and Mason followed after him, sitting at the small counter next to the window in the kitchen. He looked out as Orson dug through his fridge for ingredients. A dove fluttered to sit on the windowsill next to Orson’s potted herbs. It cooed, its claws clacking, and in response the window rattled, making it fluff its feathers. But it didn’t move. A couple more seconds went by with the bird sifting through the soil in the pots, clearly looking for something to eat. The window handle started turning up and down loudly making the dove fly away for a moment before it settled back where it was. It seemed like that was the final straw and the window creaked open, swinging out and pushing its frosted glass into the dove’s feathery butt, bodily pushing it off the sill and into the air. It didn’t come back.
“Bit violent,” Mason snorted at the display.
“They eat all my seeds and then crap all over my window,” Orson defended, and Mason laughed.
"So you figured you'd make the window their arch nemesis?"
"Stars, you're so dramatic! It helps me out a bit. It's a nice window."
“Well, you seem to have it covered. Need any help with lunch?" Mason asked, letting go of the window-bird wars.
Orson shook his head. “No, I’m good. I prepared some filets earlier, and I have stuff for a salad. Sound good?”
“Perfect. I… um… I was actually wondering if you had any plans for the day?” Mason asked carefully, picking up a paper napkin from the roll on the counter and rolling it around his fingers.
“No, not really. I cleaned my gear to store away, and then I’ve been meaning to sort out the basement a bit, but I’m perfectly fine not doing that today,” Orson said as he threw veggies into a large bowl.
