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Mason shows up unannounced at your doorstep one night, his hair slick and his shirt sticking to his chest from the rain, and if you weren’t absolutely, one-hundred-percent certain that he’s never seen a single movie in his unnaturally long life, you would have accused him of being a cliché.
But his face is stony, his eyes glaring, and it looks like he’s the one about to do the accusing. “I don’t want anybody else,” he spits out harshly, like the words are dirty, like the world is ending, like you’ve betrayed him somehow.
A multitude of replies wells up in your thoughts--sorry, did you want me to do something about that?, or I’ll try to be a little less overwhelmingly attractive, my bad, or even I know what you mean and it’s weird--but instead you just say, “come in,” because you don’t want this to be a doorway conversation, because that’s a liminal space just like your relationship is a liminal space and you can handle vampires and an undefined relationship status but not overwrought symbolism, too.
Mason walks past you into the living room like he’s trying not to look at you; he’s careful not to even let his shoulder brush against yours. You bite your lip in frustration as you metaphorically bite your tongue, trying to mask the swell of anger rising up at Mason’s unprovoked prickliness and prickishness, at the nonsensical juxtaposition of his impromptu declaration and unreasonably harsh attitude, and at yourself mostly, really. Because when you had opened your door to find Mason behind it, you were excited . Your heart had skipped a happy little beat because you had let yourself believe that you both were past this kind of needless drama, that Mason was done with playing the part of the heartless cad who only cared about body counts and his own ego.
You compose yourself and turn slowly to where Mason has slinked over, half-sitting and half-leaning on the armrest of your sofa, eyes still narrowed into slits and inspecting you with hostile suspicion.
“So this is really a conversation you wanted to have at 2 a.m., huh?” you say because you can’t help yourself.
“This isn’t a conversation I ever wanted to have at all, actually,” Mason sneers like you’re the stupidest person in the world, and it makes you feel small . It makes you feel like when you first met and he wouldn’t even put out his cigarette in your own damn office, like that overheard comment to Felix at the end of that night patrol that floated away to the stars while your heart sank like concrete, like after everything you’ve been through together nothing has changed at all. It makes you feel small, but for the first time now, it makes you feel angry, too.
“Look, I get that you’re here to untangle the first strings of complex emotion you’ve stumbled upon in your umpteenth centuries of living, but if respect isn’t one of them you can walk out that fucking door right now and save us both the time and trouble,” you say, a thin veneer of calm masking the slight tremble in your voice.
“It is,” Mason admits quietly but firmly, looking more like a chastised puppy than you ever could have imagined. You file the image away in your memory for a rainy day, feeling faintly proud and pleased with yourself.
“Good,” you say brightly, feeling some of the tension seep out of the room at last. You beam for a second, but it withers slightly as you realize you haven’t the faintest idea how to handle this conversation now. “Good,” you repeat uncertainly, the remnants of a smile still plastered on your face.
Thankfully, Mason takes the reins. It’s something you know from experience he’s very good at—although wait, no, now isn’t the time to be thinking about that—but this time he’s different, hesitant, faltering, almost shy.
“I went to a bar,” he starts before stopping himself, scowling. He’s impossible to look away from right now, open-faced and strangely vulnerable, crossing his arms against his chest defiantly but looking for all the world like he’s hugging himself instead.
You have to bite your tongue, literally this time, to stop yourself from making some snarky comment to fill the silence. You wait instead, standing barefoot in your pajamas, all too aware of the ticking of the clock in your kitchen and the beating of your heart in your chest.
Mason looks away from you and starts again. “I went to a bar looking for someone else to sleep with.”
You knew it was coming, really, but it stings anyways, although maybe stings isn’t quite the right word, because it’s more of a dull pain than anything, like a sucker punch through five sweaters, like the millionth person to step on your toes as you’re trying to stumble away from a party, like a metaphor you just can’t make make sense even with all those goddamn years wasted on studying the English language, and what was that all for, even, when you can never, ever find the words for anything —
You’re biting your lip again, jaw carefully clenched, as you wait for Mason to finish, trying to quell the intrusive thoughts that rise up unbidden, unwelcome, am I not good enough not witty enough not attractive enough or just not enough am I just not enough for you—
“I couldn’t, though. Well,” he says, chuckling bitterly and looking as miserable as you feel, “I could have, but. I didn’t. I spent the whole night just sitting there, hating everyone in the room, hating how goddamn fucking loud it was, and any time anyone even thought about approaching me I glared at them so hard that I didn’t even need to tell them to fuck off. I went out of habit, and I didn’t realize until I was there that I didn’t want to be. I spent the whole fucking night wishing I came over to your place instead.”
When he’s done, he finally looks at you again. He looks at you like he’s looking for something, and you don’t know what. You think maybe he doesn’t know what, either.
“I don’t want to think about you with other people,” you say, because it’s the truth, and you don’t know how else to answer honesty but with honesty.
“Okay,” Mason says, his voice soft and low.
“Do you like the thought of me with other people?” you ask, quiet and careful.
“No,” he says slowly like it’s genuinely never occurred to him before, like he’s surprised by his own answer. His face darkens, and he folds his arms against his chest a little tighter. “No, I don’t.”
“Well, okay then,” you breathe. You take a seat on the sofa he’s been leaning on, tug one of his arms free so you can tug him onto the sofa sitting next to you and rest your head on his chest, still damp with rain.
“So what do we do now?” Mason asks, sounding almost defeated and moping morosely on your couch.
“We get a nice little house at the end of the cul-de-sac, have three-point-four children, and settle cozily into domestic bliss,” you answer blithely, unable to help yourself from bursting into laughter when Mason sputters, horror in his eyes.
“Relax,” you chuckle with a wave of your hand. “That’s not exactly what I want either.” You inhale slowly, letting the mirth fade away, and consider his question seriously, biting your lip as you think.
“Well, we stop being drama queens for one thing. And by we, I mean you. And then we keep doing what we’re doing, and we decide what we mean to each other when we know it for sure. And by we, I really mean we this time. Both of us, together, Mason.” You peer up at him through your eyelashes, trying to gauge his reaction.
“I’m okay with that,” Mason says like he can’t believe the words are actually true.
“Good!” you say brightly. “That was the only way for me to be okay with it too.” Your lips stretch into a wide smile and you feel them crack ever so slightly, the tiniest drop of blood beading on your bottom lip.
Mason notices immediately, staring down at you with eyes dark and hungry. “You’re bleeding,” he says, and you sweep your tongue over the tiny wound sheepishly, feeling oddly self-conscious.
“Kiss it better?” you ask with faux innocence that is perhaps ruined by the suggestive eyebrow waggle you can’t help yourself from following it up with. Mason huffs out a laugh and shakes his head like he can’t believe an idiot like you is the one to finally start breaking down the shell he’s been mistaking for skin all these centuries.
You can’t really believe it either, to be honest.
“Well,” he drawls, with an eyebrow raise of his own and that wolfish smile that has you grinning in anticipation too, “I sure could use some help getting out of these wet clothes.”