TW: SUICIDAL IDEATION
𝗜saac knocked lightly on Mason's door; it had been a few hours since he returned home from Kai's house, but he couldn't walk up to him immediately. Mostly because he felt ashamed for how they last left things, and for how he treated him throughout these last two months.
He had been right to call him out; their friendship deteriorated because he allowed a few minuscule, rude comments to slip under his skin. He let their relationship spin down the drain because he was less of a man and more of a wimp—he couldn't handle being called out vigorously or being talked down upon, and so he walked away and never looked back.
It made him wonder if things would still be the same if he hadn't done that.
When no response came, he twisted the knob and entered anyway, praying that he wasn't about to be flashed by an indecent posture. He knew that he was home, however, and so he would use that as fuel for breaking into his personal space. Even if it was much too late to play the savior, he wanted to make it known that he'd be there for him.
"Mason?" he questioned, popping further in.
"Yea, I'm here," he mumbled.
Isaac stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind him, making curious eyes as he glanced at his friend's back. Mason didn't feel the need to turn around or step from the spot in front of the closet he was in currently as he walked over to his bed and plopped down.
Without wanting it to, the first thought that crossed his mind was how awkward things were between them. The air was stale and thick, and the conversation that he wanted to initiate seemed lost in the wind. He hated that this was what they came to, and he hated even more that he was the direct cause of it. Whether or not his attitude switch was necessary, it wasn't fair for him to abandon him. Clearly, it was his way of reaching out, and all he did was ignore it.
"How are you?" he asked.
"Fine."
"Are you feeling better after talking to him?"
"What does it matter to you?" he shot back.
Isaac sighed; he knew this was bound to pop back out. In all honesty, what he was asking wasn't a stretch, and he knew from this point on, he'd have to prove his care. All the words in the world can't make up for the actions he'd been performing.
"It matters, Mason," he started, "I know I haven't been there for you recently, and I know that's totally my fault, but I'm here now, and I want to listen. You can keep this conversation going by yelling at me, talking down on me, hell—you could even spit on me and I won't leave. You're my best friend, and I'm sorry I've been a shitty one to you."
The room went quiet for a while after that.
Mason still kept his back to him, facing the closet; all he could see from his spot was the muscles in veins in one of his forearms moving about as those body parts shifted in the same repetitive structure. It was like there was something in his hands that he was turning around, he just didn't know what.
And he wouldn't find out until Mason wanted him to. He was going to sit on the bed like a good friend would and wait for when he was prepared enough—if he would get there—to open up to him. If the roles were reversed, he too would find an issue with letting him in too.
"I never thought I would make it to twenty-one," Mason whispered.
His voice was so soft—so fragile, that if he had not been paying attention, he would not have heard the defining shatter that appeared within it. If he had not been listening deeply enough, he would have missed it and lost him for good.
"What do you mean by that?" he questioned, sitting up.
"When I was a kid, I told myself that I wouldn't make it to twenty-one. I told myself that I would live until I was twenty—that I would die or kill myself before I reached the last celebratory age. I didn't want to live the straight lie forever," his voice continued to waver, "But now, here I stand, weeks before that very date, and things are monumentally different."
Mason finally turned around.
Isaac's eyes grew the size of saucers.
"—I experienced lust with a man. I experienced love with a man. And every time I look back on it, all I see is my father's face, mocking me for falling for the trap of my sexuality," he looked at what was in his hands, "All I see is the failure that I was made out to be, and the image of myself with bolded letters around it, calling me a loser, a disappointment, an idiot—a burden to the Everett name."
"Mason, none of that is true," he started to stand.
His blue eyes lifted; they weighed so heavily, that he fell back to his sitting stance.
Making a note of his actions, he nodded and finally stepped away from the closet. Behind him rested a now empty box; strewn about were layers of gift-wrapping paper. The same pieces that hid such a detrimental piece of his life.
"I don't know what I'm doing anymore, Zac," he admitted, "I don't know what to do anymore."
"This is not the answer to your problems."
"Isn't it?"
Mason lifted the object into the air; the rusted edges that lined the magazine shone under the white light of the room, tinting this already dull moment. He kept the barrel aimed at the ground, away from any body parts, which only indicated to him that it was loaded—that he was planning to use it.
It was a revolver—he had never seen it in person, as he didn't believe that Mason had it anymore after seeing it used so horrifically, so he wasn't entirely sure, but if he didn't know better, he'd say that the gun in his hands right now was the same one his father used to kill himself eight years ago.
"Why do you have that?"
"I took it from the scene," he frowned, popping the cartridge open, "I don't know why I did it—I mean, I was just a kid, but now, I'm kind of thankful I did. With this," he spun the magazine, showing off the singular bullet inside, "—I'll be able to die the Everett way."
"Wh—"
"Cowardly," he spoke over him, snapping it closed.
"Mason—"
"Pathetically."
Before Isaac could react, Mason lifted the barrel to the side of his head and closed his eyes, pulling the trigger. A single flinch of his face, a breath of movement to cause his hair to flop, was all that came after the click of the gun.
An exhale escaped his lips at the same time his own two feet found the floor and pounded against it, flinging from his spot and in his direction. Without even having his eyes open, Mason predicated his movements. Air replaced the body he was attempting to grab as he pulled himself away.
"Mason!" he yelled, "What the hell are you doing?!"
"Feeling something!" he yelled back.
Isaac stalled in place, collecting his composure as emotion finally burst the floodgates of Mason's apathetic identity. He watched anger spill across his cheeks as blood rushed through them. He watched pain and remorse soak his eyes in water; he watched the way his hand shook against the firearm, rattling the single round that could easily enter his head if he was to pull the trigger again.
"There is no need to play Russian Roulette to achieve that!"
"Says who?" he angrily growled back, creating space by stepping onto the other side of the bed, "My father died eight years ago, yesterday, because of who I am, and I spent it with a guy who only sees me a sex object, and one who claims he loves me, but only hurts me. I spent the anniversary of his death doing exactly what he hated about me, so why shouldn't I reap in the authority of being an Everett man, huh?! Why shouldn't I go out the same way my daddy did!?"
"You are not your father!"
"Then why am I an Everett, huh!?" he narrowed his eyes, jumping onto his bed.
"You're not!"
He stepped to the bed, standing right below his best friend. His eyes, so fucking cerulean in this moment, were filled to the brim with pain. Everything he'd been bottling up and pushing down since the break-up was threatening to show on his face and he hated it. No matter what was happening in his life, Mason prided himself on being the one that was put together.
He knew more than anyone, even Rueben, that this was a moment in time for him. This exact moment would be the end or the beginning for Mason, and he was damned if he believed that he would so easily let this come to its final act.
"How!"
"Because you're a fucking Torres!"
The stoic look on his face dropped like glass to hardwood. The grip on the gun in his hand seemed to loosen and the wall that he placed before them was lowering. He was giving him an in—a way to explain how he felt and how he viewed him, and he was going to take it. If there was something he could do to make sure he would never feel so hollow again, he'd do it.
He'd sacrifice himself for Mason—without hesitation.
"—you've been a Torres since the day you stepped foot into the Estate. Since the day you let Rueben introduce you to new video games. You've been a Torres since the day Lilliana grabbed your hand and less-than forced you to play Barbies with her. You are not your father, and you are not susceptible to your birthright just because you were born an Everett. You are so much more than that one adjective he forced you to be; you are a role model to so many, including me."
Isaac felt himself choking up, but he persevered; it wasn't his turn.
"Please, just put the gun down. If not for me," he pleaded, "Then for you."
The black wisps of his hair moved gently in the breezes that emitted from the open window behind him. It felt as if Mason was sinking further into the mattress; the soles of his sneakers anchored him to the comfort in which he once felt, and he hoped that it was enough.
He desperately hoped that his words grounded him in the way he wanted them to.
"Bullshit," he whispered instead, "Such bullshit."
Then he lifted the gun and pulled the trigger.
It clicked.
Silence filled the space—
—then rage took over.
"You moron!" he screamed.
Isaac dived into his legs, taking him out with one swift motion. Mason landed on top of his back as he landed on his stomach on the mattress. He pounced the butt of the gun against him, trying to stop the fight he was causing, but he was so furious, that he couldn't see past it.
Red filtered over his vision as he looped one arm around his body and pulled him off him. Mason's back hit the bed as he climbed onto him, not giving him a breath to breathe before he was wrapping his hand around the firearm, trying to rip it from his grasp.
"Leave me alone, Isaac!" he flailed, "Just let me go!"
"Stop saying stupid shit, Mason!" he fired back, "Just because you got your heart broken, doesn't give you the right to break everyone else's!—how do you think the others will feel if they walk into this room and realize they need to scrape your brain off the walls?!"
Something passed his eyes.
It was enough of an emotion to make him pause.
Isaac used this to his advantage; he ripped the gun from his fingers and flung backward, attempting to get off the bed and out of arm's length. However, underestimating Mason's battle skill was something only a novice should accomplish. He recovered quickly and slammed a palm to the center of his chest, flopping him to his back now, giving him the upper hand.
He strained his teeth against one another, using all of his might to keep him from pulling it back into his hand. Isaac wrapped his legs around Mason's lower half, doing all he could to stop the future events from taking place—he needed to realize his will to live, rather than his desire to die.
"Give. It. Back!" he expressed.
"Over my dead body."
"That can be arranged—"
Without realizing it, during the battle for power, his finger had slipped into the trigger area. With the force of Mason's pressure to get it back, neither of them had seen what was about to occur.
The gun fired this time, shooting from the angle it was pointed at.
Mason's head snapped back as the bullet followed its trajectory.
A few drops of blood slipped from the open wound and onto his cheek.
He didn't even remember how to blink.
"Mason," he whispered, so quietly to the still room.
It felt like an eternity before his friend lifted his head back up and reconnected eye contact. His fingers smoothly and diligently ran across the gash that took over the majority of his cheek; blood seeped through the wound and onto his comforter, but he was barely paying attention to it.
The only thing running through his mind was the fact that he almost played his hand in killing his best friend. The only thing passing through his ears was the ringing sound of the round, fired from the tips of his fingers. The only thing his eyes picked up on was the firearm slipping from his hand, clattering to the floor, joining the shell that'd clinked just moments prior.
Mason's sobs destroyed the veil of reverse serendipity he was encased underneath.
"I'm sorry, Isaac," his fingers gripped the front of his shirt, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I-I—"
It took the flooding apologies for him to recognize the direness of the situation—the amount of pain that would have happened should the event have ended differently.
Grabbing the back of his shirt, he tossed his friend off him and stood up. Hot pain seared his cheeks as he clutched Mason's chin, pulling him in.
"You're so fucking shitty for that! I almost killed you!"
"I know!" tears flowed.
"Don't fucking cry, Mason—not now, you had your chance."
He reached up and rubbed off as many as he could.
"—you've been nothing more than a selfish dickhead these past few months and I'm tired of it. Yeah, I'm not friend-of-the-fucking-year, but neither are you. How dare you think you can throw things at Rayne, force Blake to take a trip down memory lane, and now almost have me aiding and abetting in your fucking murder!" he shoved him away, "You have some fucking nerve!"
Isaac turned on his heel and marched to the door.
"Zac, please, don't go," Mason cried, "I'm sorry—you're right, I'm terrible, but if I'm going to be that then I'm going to beg you not to leave me again. I can't—I won't make it on my own!"
He still pulled the door and swung open, leaving anyway.
The sound of Mason's cries echoed in the hallway, and for once he was glad that no one was home. He screwed his own eyes shut, following the path of the house by memory; he only opened them when he reached his room.
The tips of his boots forced him in the direction of his protective hideout; pulling his underwear drawer open, he grabbed the Bourbon-scented letter and spun again, heading right back to the boy who was nothing more than lost, nothing less than unfound.
Running back to his room, he slammed the door on his arrival.
Mason's face snapped up, "Zac!"
"Shut up."
He waved the letter in the air and watched the emotions morph on his face. He hung his head between his knees and curled up into himself, leaning against the headboard.
"Where did you get that?"
"Blake gave it to me," he sat down, "Now we're going to read it."
"No," he said a little too fast, "I don't want to read it."
"I don't care what you want—not anymore, not after that."
"You don't get it, Zac!" he raised his voice, looking up now; the untreated wound was now running past his chin, dripping, "—if I read that letter and everything I have ever wanted to hear turns out to be true, what is left for me? If I find out that he is authentic, what is stopping me from running back to the same guy? If I think for a second that our love can be restored, do you know what I'll do? The answer is simple, tangible—easy to reach."
"Why is that such a problem?"
Mason sat up, "You hate him."
"I hate him with you."
"That's exactly my point," he shook his head sadly and sat back, "What if that letter contains the truth? What if the truth aligns with mine?—what if I am his lifeline the way he is mine? What if he feels as if he cannot breathe without me? What will I do?" his shoulders began to shake, "I can't stay away from him—I love him so much."
Isaac frowned and squinted his eyes, taking in his overly depressed expression; he could tell just from the way he was hiding his face, that his eyes were showcasing the real honesty behind his words. This reaction was not just because of something like their love being requited.
"Mason, what are you really afraid of?"
Once more, the room went still.
This time, it didn't last as long.
"What if he never loved me? What if it's just a consolation prize?—like woo, thanks for fucking participating and putting out. Thanks for loving me when you were nothing more than a warm hole and a hand to show off to others."
"Well," he ripped into the letter and pulled out the pages, "There's only one way to find out.
Mason remained silent, not stopping him, but neither urging him.
Taking the step for him, he cleared his throat and began:
Isaac blinked at the paper as he stared at the last word.
There were a lot of things he expected to be written in this, but the affirmation of his love and admiration, and care towards Mason was not one of them. He could admit that he had based the way he felt on the first time they interacted—with his insolent attitude and snarky tongue, but in the time that he has failed to get to know him, he has grown up massively.
The love displayed in this letter was almost identical to ... his love for Taryn.
"Holy, shit, Mason," he breathed.
"Repeat the last line."
"What?" he tore his eyes from the page, looking at him.
The sadness he was wearing a few minutes ago was cloaked by a feeling of hope—or something else he couldn't quite pin down.
"The last line—what does it say?"
He glanced back, "'I want you to be happy, Mase—even if it is not with me.'"
Mason let out a lengthy breath, resting as still as a statue.
"He said that to me."
"When?"
"Yesterday," he made eye contact, "I said some mean things to him, but all he said was that line. And then this morning, he told me to read the letter, and I asked if it wouldn't change anything, what would happen then."
"What'd he say?"
"He said that he'd love me enough to let me go."
Isaac couldn't help it; a shadow of a smile crossed his cheeks as that familiar glow began to twinkle behind his eyes once again. While he didn't necessarily like that the same thing that destroyed him, brought him back to life, he was thrilled to see that he was here once again, despite that.
And he seriously did not blame him. There were multiple times when he thought that Taryn would leave his side—for something he did—and every time she returned. They healed and grew together; he knew that now that there was new insight between them, the same might be available for the two of them.
Mason grabbed the five pages and began to gaze at them himself; each time his eyes widened, he understood that he was reading the crossed-out lines, or attempting to.
As he went to give him a proper smile, a show of gratitude for this shoved step forward, his phone rang in his pocket, pulling apart the moment. At least, to him—Mason just waved him off and continued his searching.
Pulling it out, he clicked answer.
"Hey, Rueb—"
He shut his lips as the information spiraled into his ear, warped, and frightened. The breathy sound of his brother's voice and the pain that etched the eeriness of the situation had him freezing in place, so much so that even after he'd hung up, he was standing still, facing the window.
It took him another minute to snap out of it.
"Mason," he spun.
He read his face easily, "What's wrong?"
"It's Rayne."