Chapter Text
October 11th, 2057.
Mason and Zane were too focused on enjoying their Thursday night rehearsal to care about the police cars and ambulances running past Agnes’ bedroom window.
“Gotta work on my swing, gotta do my own thing.”
The song echoed through the room as the teenagers jumped from one bed to another.
Mason threw himself to the ground, followed by Zane jumping upon him, turning his body to face the other boy’s direction. Their faces being a few inches apart, they sang along to the lyrics of the High School Musical performance, ‘Bet on it’, having Mason portraying Zane’s figure on the water.
It was a habitual thing for Mason, coming over to the Aldermans to help his friends practice for whatever play they got themselves cast in. This fall, it was High School Musical 2, 50th Anniversary Edition.
“It’s no good at all to see yourself and not recognize your face, out on my own, it’s such a scary place.”
The air conditioner’s wind hit the back of Zane’s sweaty neck and caused a few strikes of Agnes’s hair to lift up, the girl kneeling on the wood floor. With her hands holding her just-bought transparent phone, she filmed the boys’ performance, their extremely dramatic faces causing her to giggle.
Mason tried hard to stay in character—after all, he didn’t want to mess with Zane’s performance. But having his best friend practically doing a soliloquy—musical version—on top of him was no help.
Zane and Mason were close since elementary school, and Agnes only became a part of their life in freshman year after they got admitted to the MacArthur Academy of the Arts—the best performing arts high school in the state.
“The answers are all inside of me.”
Zane stood up slowly, facing the door like it was his audience, a histrionic expression stamped on his face. Mason struggled not to burst out into laughter.
“All I gotta do is believe.”
The door opened seconds before the boys could finish the song’s latest sentence. Zane turned to face away from it in a heartbeat, and Mason and Agnes got up just as quickly.
A few steps ahead of them stood Agnes’ mom. She analyzed the situation in bewilderment, waiting for the kids to tidy up and pay attention to what she had to say.
“Turn the music off, Elsa,” Agnes told her virtual assistant AI.
“You named your bot Elsa?” Zane laughed at her. “What happened to Zendaya?”
“She got old,” Agnes whispered, as if it was top-secret information.
“And you’re only realizing that now?”
“Who’s Elsa?” Mrs. Alderman carefully entered the room.
The place was filled with a combination of plants—most of them green—and brown-colored wooden furniture. The woman rested against the now wide-open door, still baffled from the scene she had just walked in.
“Just a pretty name, mom,” Agnes replied, making sure to narrow her eyes at the boys, who almost failed at holding back their laughter, all while trying not to catch her mother’s attention to their scene.
“She isn’t that one, uh... gay”—Mrs. Alderman struggled to say the word—“princess, is she?”
Mason rested his head on Zane’s shoulder so that Mrs. Alderman couldn’t notice his smile. Zane placed a palm to his lips with the same intention.
“Obviously not, mom. You know I didn’t even watch Frozen.”
Frozen was forbidden content at the Aldermans ever since the second live-action came out, due to its “unfaithfulness to the original”, which were Mrs. Alderman’s words for I’m a raging homophobe and don’t want my children to get influenced by this movie’s implications.
“Didn’t watch Frozen, my ass,” Mason muttered to Zane, feeling his body shake from light chuckles.
He remembered the times when Agnes would make them watch multiple Disney movies in a row. And the times when he’d pretend not to notice Agnes panicking over Elsa simply removing her hair out of her braids.
Ugh, lesbians these days.
Now the three of them had probably memorized all of the Disney filmography in existence, from the 1930s animations to the just-released live-actions.
“Oh, okay, good. Uh, Mason.” The woman focused all of her attention on the boy with a lifted eyebrow. Mason took time to fix his hair, its curls sticking on his face from all the sweat. “Your dad called. He said he had to take an unexpected flight today, so, you can stay here with us.”
Mason’s heart drilled in his chest, a pained expression stealing over his face. The adrenaline in his veins all of a sudden evaporated.
“A flight? Again? It’s like the third time in the past month,” the boy snapped. His brows were knitted in a frown. His jaw, a little fallen.
It had been about three years since his dad started traveling for work. At first, Mason was kind of glad about it. He got to throw house parties so often he became well-known at school for it. But after a few months, it got exhausting. Not having a family member to talk to when he wanted. To hold him when he needed. Now he’s left with classmates expecting to be welcomed at his house for a gathering on every special occasion. Every homecoming after-party. Every Halloween. After every school event or musical.
For all of his or Zane’s birthdays.
“Wait, is he at least staying for my birthday?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say when he’d be back,” Mrs. Alderman said. Mason caught a glimpse of sympathy in her eyes and voice tone, although not sure if she actually cared.
Mason worried. Concern rose all upon his face. He had already spent a birthday without his dad, that wasn’t the problem. But this year he’d turn seventeen. In a little less than 30 hours, he’d be allowed to finally take his deathmate test. He’d been waiting for this day ever since he was taught what a deathmate was. To just have a tiny bit of control over his life—or in this case, death. And the presence of a parent for the exam was indispensably important.
“Are you having dinner with us, Zane?” the woman, probably noticing Mason’s mood shift, decided to change the subject.
It was weird how Mason’s dad constantly advised him to sleep over at the Aldermans when Zane and his family lived one floor below.
Was it because Agnes’s parents were always home and Zane’s worked till late at night?
Or how organized the Aldermans were?
Or how safe their neighborhood was in comparison to Zane and Mason’s?
Or was it solely because his dad wanted to tighten their bond with the Aldermans? Yeah, that could be it.
“No, sorry.” Zane picked his backpack up from the ground. “My mom wanted me to get home early so I could take care of Tiana.”
Zane went near his friends and kissed Agnes’ forehead, getting a very annoyed look from Mason when he messed with his wet hair and walked towards Agnes’ mom.
“Where’s my kiss?” Mason joked, trying to mask his uneasiness from the information Mrs. Alderman had just dropped like a bomb and left to see it all go down.
(Although she didn’t leave and was uneasily watching the boys’ interaction.)
“I’ll kiss your ass later. Good night, assholes!”
The woman’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Um, sorry,” Zane mumbled. Goddamn idiot. “Bye, Mrs. Alderman!”
He ran past the door, and after a few seconds, a loud slam was heard. Mason and Agnes combusted with laughter.
✶✶✶
“This morning, the President Hayes’ sculpture at the Lafayette Square was found beheaded. The main suspect of the vandalism act is the 16-year-old criminal Bryan Whittemore, son of Dawson Whittemore. The teenager has committed multiple felonies including kidnapping, burglary, and murder. He’s been sought by the police for months. If you have seen him, please contact us. Call the number on our screen and enter our website for more information on Whittemore. We’d love to hear from you.” The sound of the reporter’s voice came from the hologram display.
The family of 5 and Mason ate their dinner. The dining room, not so far away from the kitchen, had all sorts of lavish glass utensils placed everywhere around the room. On the fancy tall china cabinet, on the other fancy corner cabinet, on the buffet table, on the white hutch, and a few over the dining table as well.
“Ah, this guy again? How is it that hard to find a 16-year-old? I’m thinking of volunteering myself to search for this kid. Seriously,” Mr. Alderman exclaimed with a chuckle, swinging a glass of what Mason assumed was alcohol. A tight long-sleeved shirt framed his stupid muscles.
Ah, Bryan Whittemore. Mason’s dad wouldn’t stop talking about him. Or about how he was giving up on searching for this kid after 6 months of not getting a single clue to where he was. Had he given up on him yet? Maybe not—the bounty reward was worth half a million dollars—but he will someday.
“Seems suspicious to me.”
Everyone turned to look at Agnes, who carried a fork with vegetables to her mouth.
After noticing no one had said anything, she continued, placing the fork down, “I mean, that’s like, in front of The White House. How did no one see that?”
“Who do you think it was then? Someone would’ve seen it too, right? Based on your… logic,” her father said while Mason’s confused-looking eyes traced from Agnes to Mr. Alderman. He’d been trying to stop thinking about his deathmate test in the past 30 minutes. Ignoring his problems until the time he had to face them again was always a good idea. Sometimes.
This was a good distraction.
“I don’t know. It just seems weird,” Agnes said. “Like, from the number of crimes Bryan Whittemore has committed these past days, it’s impossible not to catch him. I mean, he’s also killed people, so...”
Mr. Alderman processed the information staring at Agnes with tired eyes. It was unsettling even for Mason, who sat right beside her.
“Are you defending this criminal, now?” the man said.
God, his face was so annoying to look at.
Mason had no idea how Agnes turned out to be the way she is. Her dad was a douchebag and her mom was a sycophant, so the only logical product was… a dumb-but-not-stupid hot-headed lesbian? Made sense.
His other two kids stood quiet, not paying any attention to the conversation. The pre-teen girl, Grace, had her eyes set on her phone, while the little brother, Aden, played with his food.
“Oh, come on. I’m not defending him. This all just seems pretty weird, you know?” she replied, choosing to face her plate instead of her father’s cold expression.
“You kids and your… theories. Some day you gotta wake up and see that the world doesn’t work like that.” He pointed his fork at her in a half threatening way. Mason watched as a tiny bit of purée fell on the table. “You wanna know how many homicides have happened right under our noses where the murderer is still out there and maybe even unidentified till this day?” Mr. Alderman retorted in a single breath.
Agnes maintained her gaze at the plate, not being able to respond.
“Um, you guys wanna watch something else? I’m not into having these bad vibes during dinner time, alright?” Mrs. Alderman interrupted, sliding her fingers over the remote device to change the channel, which now played a football game. “So, you kids are having a High School Musical play, huh?”
“Yeah... Zane’s playing Troy,” Mason said, then checked to see if Agnes was still staring at her plate. Was she paralyzed?
He poked her arm and she finally glanced up at her mom.
No, not paralyzed. Good.
“Oh, really? What about you, Mason? Are you playing anyone?” She took a sip from her coupe glass of what looked like the same clear alcohol beverage Mr. Alderman had on his. Pinky up.
“Ah, no, I’m not much of an actor. Agnes got cast for Sharpay, though. She’s really great, Mrs. Alderman.” Mason took a bite of the vegan ‘chicken’ breasts.
“Oh, yeah? Isn’t that nice, Martin?” Mrs. Alderman faced her husband with a gentle smile on her face.
“Yeah, for sure,” Mr. Alderman said without turning his eyes away from the football game.
“You know, my mother used to love High School Musical. I even had a friend from school who was named after Sharpay. You remember Sharpay, right, Martin? Unfortunately, she was taken away too soon. I think her deathmate died from an overdose, didn’t she? Such a misfortune. No matter how hard you try not to sin, there will always be others taking you down with them,” Mrs. Alderman said, Agnes now fixated on anything other than her mother.
Although having no idea of what that was even supposed to mean, it reminded Mason of his mother, and he despised everything that reminded him of her.
“I’m sorry,” he thought it was ideal to reply, mumbling the last words spoken during the family dinner.
✶✶✶
“Um, Agnes, why did your parents made you share your room with Grace? I thought you had the room to yourself.” Mason had his body pushed against the doorframe of Agnes’ bedroom, dressed in the pajamas he borrowed from her dad, which were way too big for his 5 feet and 5 inches body.
“Oh, that. My mom thought it would be better for her to stay in mine, instead of Aden’s. While her room’s still on renovation.” Agnes crossed her arms over her chest.
The bedroom was big enough to fit one queen-sized bed and another, brightly pink decorated twin-sized bed.
“I hope it’s ready soon, Grace’s stupid bed sheets are ruining my aesthetic.”
It didn’t look so bad… did it? With the brown and green palette of Agnes’ side of the room… Yeah, it was horrifying.
“But, um… she sent Grace over to my room because she thought Aden was getting too feminine.” Agnes rolled her eyes. Arms now crossed with an even tighter grip, tugging at her long-sleeved shirt.
Oh. Typical.
“That’s fucked up.” Mason furrowed his eyebrows. The idea of pushing Agnes’ mom off the stairs sounded extremely appealing at the moment.
No, that’s terrible.
Is it, though?
“I’m sorry, but sometimes your mom is kind of—”
“A bitch?”
“Yeah.” He laughed, tracing the back of his head with his hand.
His bare feet pressed against the wood floor with a cold sensation. He could stay in this position for hours, set by the frame with his arms crossed inside the way too long sleeves, mirroring his friend. Even though her room was dark, he could still see Grace’s bed on the side, where they jumped along with Zane in such joy. Agnes stood in front of him with her dark long hair outlined by the yellow lights coming from the streetlamps outside.
“You know, she could’ve just sent you to his room,” he continued.
“Why?”
“So he could be more masculine,” he jokingly deepened his voice and flexed his muscles. Only the corridor lights were on, but that didn’t stop Mason from noticing the smile on Agnes’ face, which she tried to hide.
“Hey, being a lesbian isn’t the same as being masculine.”
“I know. But you’re both.”
“How many times do I have to tell you I’m a femme?”
“How many times do I have to tell you I don’t know what that means?” Mason asked through giggles, but it felt more like an exclamation.
Agnes, open-mouthed, punched him on the shoulder.
“Hey!” He caressed the area with the palm of his hand, although it didn’t actually hurt.
“Yeah, go to sleep, drama boy,” she said.
He smirked and turned to look at his phone screen. It wasn’t transparent and expensive like Agnes’, but it worked just fine.
“26 hours!”
“What?” Agnes furrowed her eyebrows, a clear crooked grin on her face.
“My birthday? I’ll find out who my deathmate is!” He threw both his hands in the air, hitting his phone on the doorframe. Completely sure he didn’t need his dad anyway. Right? He’ll work it out. He always works it out.
Or at least that’s what he wanted to believe.
“Oh, yeah. Still a lot of time till then, huh? Go to bed.” Agnes pushed his head and began closing the door. She turned her bedroom lights on.
Mason walked through the corridor, jumping towards Aden’s bedroom.
“Aden!” Mason screamed like it wasn’t 10 p.m. in a quiet neighborhood. “Tomorrow I’m finding out who my deathmate is!” Mason stopped in the doorway and looked up to the ceiling. “Wait. No, not tomorrow. Saturday!” He ran to hug Aden, who gave him a shocked look, looking almost breathless from the tight hug.
The little boy was sitting cross-legged on his bed working on a few school papers.
The walls were covered in a dark blue wallpaper. An armchair of the same color was set next to the window. There were a few books over it, but everything was still very organized. It was noticeable the Aldermans strived to be modern with their furniture while still keeping the old wooden aspect of the house.
Startled, Aden looked up at Mason, who mumbled a “sorry” after letting a paper about overpopulation studies fall off the bed.
“What’s a deathmate?” Aden asked.
Mason was busy staring at a copy of The Wonderful Wizard of OZ on Aden’s bed. When was the last time Mason even picked up a book? Or read one digitally?
The shelves in the room were covered in books, too. Stories Aden probably won’t ever read. All for decoration.
Why were there so many printed books, anyway? It’s 2057. Stop killing the planet.
“Your school still has assignments on paper? What a nightmare. You know, it’s so much easier on the computer, I don’t even have to read anything, the google lady does it for me!” Mason picked the papers up from the ground.
Readjusting himself to sit cross-legged on the bedsheet, he placed his cold feet below his covered thighs. Cozy.
“No, my school’s weird. What’s a deathmate, Mason?”
“Oh, haven’t you learned it yet?” Mason turned to look at the papers, trying to find Aden’s grade number, but his mind was too jittery for him to focus. Happened sometimes. Instead, he decided to ask Aden himself. “What grade are you in?”
“First grade.”
“Well, then you’ll probably study it next year in biology,” he said, but after noticing Aden’s adorable pleading face, he couldn’t resist, “But... maybe I can teach you now?”
The boy quickly nodded.
“Okay. Uh, well,” Mason tried to formulate the sentence in his head before saying it. He’d heard its definition a thousand times in school. Memorization wasn’t his specialty, but he had his way with learning things. “A deathmate is someone who will die at the same time as you. So, if you die, they die too, and if they die, you die.”
Aden tilted his head to the side. Eyes hazel like Agnes’. “I don’t understand.”
God, so adorable.
“Oh. Okay, um, let’s say you have a deathmate named, I don’t know, Mary. Mary is your deathmate. So, Mary was born the same day you were born. When were you born?”
“October 1st, 2051.”
“Oh, really? Agnes was born on February 1st, right?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s so cool. Okay. Um, what was I talking about again?”
“Mary.”
“Who’s Mary? Oh, right. Your deathmate. So, you and Mary were born on the same day, therefore you two will die on the same day. Let’s say you are, like, 30-something and Mary has a heart problem and dies from it. You’ll die too, ” Mason said, getting a mortified look from the boy in front of him. “It doesn’t matter how healthy you are. She’s your deathmate, so you’ll die at the same time as her,” he finished and was now pretty sure Aden was well on his way to a heart attack.
Too early?
Mason ruled out the possibility of becoming an elementary school teacher in his future.
Not that he ever thought much about it in the first place, but kids are cute. Though he could clearly imagine Agnes telling him later, ‘Don’t do it. Kids are an incarnation of the devil. You only disagree because you don’t have any siblings.’
“But you don’t have to worry about that. It only happens when you’re 17,” Mason clarified. “Or, like, near 17, I think.”
“You turn 17 on Saturday!” Aden jumped and put his hands on Mason’s shoulder.
“Yeah. It’s when you’re allowed to know who your deathmate is.”
And now he was once again thinking of how he would be able to take his deathmate test without his dad. Maybe he should just wait until he comes back? No, Mason didn’t like waiting. He would figure something else out. Or maybe Zane would.
“Oh,” Aden took his hands off of Mason and went back to sitting, now having both his knees facing the mattress. “Why can’t you know before that?”
“I think your body is, like, not developed enough. Something like that,” Mason tried to explain, although he had no idea of what he was talking about.
Yeah, definitely not becoming a teacher.
Aden nodded, but he still had a puzzled look on his face. “And what will you do once you know who your deathmate is?”
Zane was the only one out of their trio who’d already gotten their deathmate test. It took him around a week to finally do it, and Mason couldn’t understand how he could be so unbothered about it. His deathmate turned out to be a girl living in Seattle, with a ton of followers on social media. It felt special being a part of a (D-list) celebrity’s life, even from just being her deathmate’s best friend. But she and Zane didn’t talk much—mostly on his part, since she wasn’t the kind of person Zane liked to hang out with.
“Um, probably try getting in contact with them,” Mason said, tilting his head to the side, thinking. “Some people want to meet them, others just pretend they don’t exist. Others fall in love, then marry each other and die together. Some romantic Romeo and Juliet bullshit.” He turned to face Aden, who stared at Mason with a tiny glint of shock on his face.
Oh. You can’t use swear words near children. Right?
“Oh, sorry. I mean stuff,” he rushed to say.
Aden let out another small chuckle.
A knock was heard and Mason jumped, only to see Mrs. Alderman standing beside the already wide-open door.
Hopefully, she didn’t witness Mason swearing next to her 6-year-old son.
“Aden, it’s time to sleep. I’m sure Mason is tired too.” She threw the teenager a gentle smile.
She was dressed in a silk pajama set, a lot like the one Mason had on, but his was blue and hers was grey.
“Oh, and you’re letting him stay with your bed, you sleep on the floor. Have manners. Good night, boys.” The woman closed the door.
The boys got up, and, familiar with the routine, Mason followed Aden as they headed brush their teeth.
✶✶✶
“Can I have my pillow?” Aden stood with his socks on top of the mattress on the ground, holding his dinosaur printed pillow to his chest.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll sleep on the floor,” Mason tried to say with a mouth full of toothpaste foam, thinking Aden would get any of it.
“I didn’t understand a thing you just said.”
Mason ran to the bathroom to spit the toothpaste out. It was in the room beside Aden’s. The cabinet was filled with luxury toiletries and a few band-aids.
No antidepressants or Ritalin like at Mason’s. Must be nice.
“I said you can sleep on your bed. I’ll sleep on the mattress, don’t worry,” Mason said as soon as he got back to the boy’s room.
“Oh. Thanks, Mason,” Aden gave him a timid smile and got himself under his blanket.
“No problem, buddy.”
“I don’t understand,” Aden said. A few minutes had passed and both boys were still awake. The lights were already turned off. The only illumination came from the street lights that shined through the half-open blinds.
“What do you not understand?”
“Why do we have deathmates? And why can we only die together when we’re 17?”
“Aden, you’re way too smart,” Mason said with his eyes closed. “Look, I don’t know. It’s always been this way. I don’t think we even learn that at school? Maybe scientists haven’t figured it out yet,” Mason pulled the blanket over his face. “Good night, Aden.”
✶✶✶
“Can you lend me a notebook page?” Mason asked, his body turned to face Agnes, who sat behind him. He wore the same black pants from the day before and a faint dark blue school jersey he had forgotten at Agnes’ when he helped her and Zane practice for the play a few days back.
It was around 9 a.m., second period. Trigonometry, ugh. At least it was one of the few classes he got to share with both of his best friends.
But Agnes wasn’t listening. Her total attention was centered around some pink-haired girl 3 rows away from them. She had a pretty face, indeed.
Mason waved a hand in front of her. “Could you be a little more subtle with your staring? Your parents are still pieces of—”
“Okay, calm down.” Agnes scowled at him, looking ready to put a knife against his throat. “It’s too early in the day for this.”
Their class wasn’t exactly the most silent, so no one could actually listen to what they were saying.
“It’s too early in the day for you to accidentally out yourself to the entire sch—”
“Okay! Please, shut up now.”
“Yes, ma’am. But, um… Will you please give me a notebook page?” Mason begged, his forearm resting on the front part of her desk.
Agnes just stared at him, hesitant.
“Please?”
“Do you even have a pen?”
“Yes?” He exhibited his pen with pride, running it through his fingers
“Now, where did you even get that?”
“I don’t know, someone’s table?” Mason chuckled.
Agnes rolled her eyes and decided to pluck a blank page out of her notebook, handing it out to him. “Is the party still up for tomorrow?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Mason grasped the paper sheet, careful not to crease it.
“I don’t know, with the whole deathmate thing… What are you gonna do about it?”
“I was hoping Zane would give me a ride to the hospital tonight?” Mason turned to face the boy, who sat to his left.
Zane was occupied with doing the math exercises the teacher had assigned for them minutes earlier, humming to the tune of High School Musical’s I Don’t Dance. His character, Troy, wasn’t even in that performance, but he’d become obsessed with the song ever since they binge-watched the trilogy with Agnes the month before.
Only now he paid attention to his friends’ conversation. “Hospital? Why?”
“My deathmate test.”
“Oh, so we’re going at midnight?” Zane asked.
“Yeah, the sooner, the better, I think.”
“Alright, then. Don’t let me forget about it.” And, just like that, he was back to the exercises.
✶✶✶
It was 5 p.m. when Mason showed up by Zane’s theater rehearsal. The boy moved his body across the stage following the teacher’s instructions. An ugly blue polo shirt with navy blue stripes hugged his sweaty figure, the faint yellow illumination of the lamps highlighting the wetness over his forehead and neck.
Zane danced while sending glances at Connor Hayes, who sat on the auditorium’s bleachers with one leg over the other like the snob he was.
Mason took a seat just behind him, hoping to get Zane’s attention while wishing Connor hadn’t felt his presence.
“Alright, that’s it for today.” The drama teacher clapped her hands. “Have a nice weekend, everyone!” she said, then whispered something to Zane, followed by the boy smiling at her and turning to look in Mason’s direction.
After noticing his friend on the stands, Zane quickly jumped off the stage and ran towards Mason. He grabbed a washcloth on the way, putting it around his neck.
“That’s one ugly ass outfit you got,” Mason greeted.
“Nice show, Tucker,” Connor decided to greet him too. With sarcasm clear in his expression, he stood up and clapped towards Zane, not bothering to move the curtain bangs from falling over his eyes as if he came straight out of an old classic from the ’90s.
He’d been messing with Zane for the past few days. He was probably just annoyed he didn’t get the main role, but being cast as Ryan Evans was a much better fit for him.
“Yeah, fuck off,” Zane said to Connor. “She complimented me!” He grinned, referring to his teacher, and now giving his full attention to Mason. “Said ‘you were great out there,’” he mimicked the teacher with an excessively high-pitched voice.
Mason was about to congratulate him, but he must have been slow with coming up with a response because instead, Zane continued in a sharp breath, “Okay, I’mma just go get changed, meet me by the car, ok?” He handed Mason his keys and rubbed the towel over the sides of his face, walking back to the stage.
“A bit rude, your boy, huh? I think you two should be a little more grateful for being here. Not many kids like you have the same opportunity.”
“Fuck off, Connor.” Mason thought his fist flying right across the boy's nose would've been a fascinating view.
But he wouldn’t have a good reason to explain the act when there were about 5 other teenagers in the room to witness and he was one suspension away from losing his precious scholarship, so he stayed calm and bolted towards the back door, hoping the asshole wouldn’t follow him.
He shouldn’t be antagonizing President Hayes’ nephew; golden son of the director of the United States Marshals Service, Benjamin Hayes; and brother to Heather Hayes, the youngest sitting senator at 30 years old—but Connor was just that annoying.
“Your birthday is tomorrow, right?” Connor asked, trying to catch up with Mason’s fast pace. He stood just about an inch shorter than Mason, with a similar scrawny figure.
Mason wondered why Connor was suddenly interested in having a conversation with him. Shouldn’t he be in some fancy hotel drinking champagne with his perfect democrat family?
“Yeah. Why, are you buying me something?” Mason laughed. Connor had never attended a single one of his parties. (Thank God).
“I just saw some people talking about it. But, I mean, you could really use some better shoes. I mean, did you go to war with these, or what?” Connor giggled. Oh, he would look so good with a black eye.
They walked into the empty parking lot, the slight breeze making Mason hug his shivering arms. The autumn leaves crunched beneath their feet.
His old high-top Converse weren’t that bad, were they? So what if he’d used them almost every day since freshman year and hadn’t yet grown out of them?
Mason came to a stop near Zane’s beige pickup truck, leaning against it. He could get inside, but Connor was still behind him and he didn’t want to be that rude.
“If you’re offering…” Mason eyed the gleaming black Oxford shoes Connor had on.
“So, when are you getting your deathmate test?” Connor changed the subject. Too bad. A fancy birthday gift from him would have been very welcome.
“Sometime soon.”
In 7 hours, to be exact, but Mason wasn’t in the mood to admit his anticipation to Connor of all people.
Why was this spoiled little shit all up in his business today anyway?
“Are you… excited?” Connor asked. And God. If Zane takes another minute to arrive, Mason swears he’s shoving Connor’s face against the window of Zane’s car. No one would see it anyway. It was his fault for not having bodyguards.
“A little.”
Mason checked his phone. It had been only three minutes since rehearsal was over and Zane probably wouldn’t arrive for another five minutes, so he decided to press the key’s button to open the car’s doors. There was no way in hell he’d freeze his ass outside while having to handle Connor’s small talk.
“Do you wanna ask me anything?” Mason asked before opening the passenger’s door and sitting inside, it being still open for Connor’s response.
“Uh, yeah. Your address.”
“My—What?” Mason blinked twice. “Why?”
“Your party tomorrow?” Connor fidgeted with the end of his tie, still maintaining eye contact with Mason, who had one leg outside the door.
“Yeah… you’re not going.” Screw not being rude.
“Come on. Everyone else can go and I can’t?”
Mason struggled not to roll his eyes. Come on, Zane. Come on.
“I don’t think it’s your type of thing, you know? I don’t live in a freaking mansion like you do.” Mason waited for a response, when receiving none, he continued, “It’s a pretty tight place, there are gonna be lots of sweaty people all close together.” He gestured with clapped hands. “It’s not your vibe.” Mason scanned Connor’s dirt-free white button-up, his unwrinkled pants, and perfectly clean shoes.
“You do realize everyone else here lives in big houses too, right?” Connor said, and to Mason’s delight, a thud was heard from the other side of the car.
“What, does he need a ride too?” Zane laughed. He entered the car and placed his duffle bag on Mason’s lap. The boy moved it to the backseat.
“No, I’m just—” Connor started, but was cut by Zane stretching his arm to close Mason’s door. Not missing the chance to flip Connor off.
“You’ve been talking to him since rehearsal?” Zane asked, now in the privacy of his car. He pressed the pedal, driving away from Connor, who was left standing alone in the parking lot.
“He wants to go to my party tomorrow.” Mason tucked his seatbelt.
“Weirdo. Anyways, wanna go out to celebrate? I got a compliment from Ms. Rhodes—she never compliments anyone—and an A on that sociology paper.” He drove past the school’s gateway with a grin on his face.
✶✶✶
“So, which hospital are we going to?” Zane asked with a hand on the steering wheel after staying hours in a café with Mason—Zane trying to contact talent agencies, all while having about 5 cups of coffee, and Mason telling him which old guys looked like a creep.
The sky was dark and starless, and there were numerous trees nearby. A few brick buildings surrounded the city block. The only cars on the street were parked by its sides, providing a quiet ride throughout the neighborhood. The clock on the dashboard hit 11:47 p.m.
“The one your mom works at.” Mason drank from the last bit of his iced coffee.
“That’s literally the farthest one from here.”
“Yeah, but my dad isn’t here, and… I don’t know. Maybe she can help.” He raised his eyebrows, his glass straw dancing across his bottom lip.
“Yeah, maybe,” Zane said without taking his eyes off the road.
“Just maybe.”
“You’re gonna be the one that saves me...” Zane started in a whisper.
“No. Not doing this again.”
For some reason, Zane had lately been obsessed with songs from the 20th century. He’d blast through their house anything that was made before the year 2000, ranging from 70’s hits to freaking Wonderwall.
“Oh, come on. You’re the one who’s into music,” Zane said.
And, yeah, true. Music was the reason why Mason got his scholarship in the first place. While Zane and Agnes got accepted into the school because of their talent in acting, Mason was there because of his expertise in playing guitar with unusual ease.
Though Wonderwall was never, ever, on the list of songs he intended to play.
“Nope.”
“It’s a classic.”
“It’s the most overplayed song in the entire universe.”
“You’re so boring,” Zane said, giving a pause to scan Mason’s face. He waited for him to explode with curse words, but Mason solely stared at his friend in silence with the deadliest look he could put on.
Zane was about to burst into laughter when Mason began in a high-pitched mumble, “And after all…”
“You’re my wonderwall…” Zane continued, eyes pleading for Mason to sing along.
And he did.
For the whole ride, all they could focus on was to use all of the air in their lungs into screaming a 62-year-old song. They shouted out of their windows and into the empty street, their hair blown out by the night’s cold October wind.
And Mason didn’t give a damn if they were giving quiet and peaceful Washington, D.C. a performance of “Wonderwall”, of all songs. It felt good. They felt free.
After finishing Wonderwall, they did it again with Don’t look back in anger. Then Morning Glory, then Champagne Supernova, then Hey Now, and then I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor, for God’s sake.
Mason didn’t know most of the lyrics of the Oasis’ songs, but Zane singing them with all the strength in his diaphragm made up for it.
Two teenage boys creating memories for the gold teenage years. Nothing could stop them now.
Except for a phone call.
Mason’s hands trembled as he stared at the caller ID. His heart felt as if it was in his throat, his head spinning. The phone rang in his shaking hands.
No— This couldn’t be.
“Who is it?” Zane said, from what felt like a thousand miles away, in what seemed like a concerned voice.
“My mom.” Mason didn’t take his eyes away from the phone. He didn’t answer it, either.
“Aren’t you gonna pick it up?” Zane’s tone was cautious, as if struggling to choose the right words. “She hasn’t called in ages.”
Ages.
Exactly 8 years.
The last time, to wish 9-year-old Mason a happy birthday after not calling for 6 months.
He’d brushed it off that time. Maybe she was just busy.
But now it was too late.
“Exactly, why should I pick it up now?” He finally turned to look at Zane, whose eyesight kept shifting between Mason and the road ahead.
“I don’t know, I guess… Maybe you’ll regret it if you don’t,” Zane stated with raised eyebrows.
Mason analyzed his friend’s expression, not expecting anything from him, but solely to have a safe place to look at. And think.
And maybe, just maybe, his heart throbbing in his chest and his aching throat did mean that he was scared of the ringtone dissolving through thin air and never coming back to resonate.
Scared of losing the one opportunity he’d had in the past 8 years.
“Fuck it.” Mason slid the button to the right and put the phone against his ear.
All went quiet.
He attempted to listen closely to whatever sounds came from the other side of the line, afraid he’d miss it.
Until he heard her voice again.
“Hi, hey, baby.” It sounded fragile, as if it would fall apart if given a little tap.
“Hey, mom.” Mason wanted to not give in to the feeling, but his voice cracked. He looked at Zane, again trying to ensure himself that he was safe, especially with him by his side.
“Happy birthday, my boy,” she said, and although the clock hit 11:51 p.m., Mason believed her every word.
It was his birthday. He was 17 now. He’d dreamed of it since 2nd grade’s biology class when he learned what having a deathmate meant, and how it would give his life a meaning. It was the only thing that kept him from going any further with his suicidal thoughts. To know that there was someone out there who deserved to live, even if he didn’t. And he’d been wanting to know who he was living for since then.
“You’re getting old, huh?” his mom continued, her sobs filling the car. “I’m sorry I haven’t called before, Mason. I really am. Please believe me, will you, kid? Mom loves you. I want you to know that. I’m sorry.”
Listening in anguish to his mother’s words, Mason kept silent. His vision was blurry as tears built behind his eyes.
“Please forgive me, Mason,” she said.
And that’s where it ached. Forgiveness. How could you forgive someone when they had shifted your entire life path for the worse, who’d hurt you so much it pained until this day, and you knew it would forever affect you? No matter what you did, no matter what they did, the damage was done, and you would forever have to deal with the consequences.
“I love you so—” his mom began, but Mason was tired. And tired was the best word he could use.
He turned off his phone and put it on the inside of his hoodie’s pocket as Zane said, “Why did y—”
“I just— I can’t do it,” Mason almost screamed. Almost, because he didn’t have the energy to. He folded his arms around his chest and trembled on his seat. He could feel his face shaking.
Maybe because it was cold outside.
“Oh. It—it’s okay, Mase.” Zane looked at his friend with nothing but honesty in his eyes, and Mason appreciated him for understanding.
Mason noticed the familiar bricked building in front of them. They had arrived. The hospital was enormous, like a campus. Mason had been there a few times, and he loved it. It felt safe.
He’d never expected to spend the 5 minutes before the midnight of October 13th—a moment he’d been wondering about and planning out since he was 7-years-old. In his mind, he would be on a ride to the hospital with his mom by his side, smiling widely from knowing he’d finally get his deathmate test done—like this, tearing apart in Zane’s car because his mom decided to call. His mom, who 9 years ago decided to leave her only child behind and never come back home.
Zane parked the car and unbuckled his seatbelt, but didn’t move any further.
Instead, he gave one look at Mason and hugged him.
Mason didn’t think twice before burying his head on his friend’s chest. For once, he felt his body relax in the touch, alleviating a growing weight from his shoulders. He let tears race down his hot cheeks, probably damping Zane’s shirt in the process.
Giving Zane one last tight squeeze, he pulled away, wiping the tears off his red cheeks.
“It’s okay,” Zane said once again. He put a hand on Mason’s shoulder and looked deeply into his eyes. Mason admired how good actors were with maintaining eye contact. “Everything’s gonna be alright.”
Mason nodded. He wanted nothing more than to believe him. Zane had always been the one who gave him the most hope.
“Are you okay? Are we good to go?” Zane said to which Mason nodded.
“Okay, come on.” Zane opened his door and stepped outside. Before he could walk any further he ducked his head back inside the car and pointed at the glove compartment. “Wait, can you open that thing?”
Mason did so.
“Can you get that mustache for me?”
“That what?” Mason said, trying to make his laugh unnoticeable.
“The mustache. It’s right there.”
“Why do you have a fake mustache in your car?”
“From the Peter Pan musical? When I played Captain Hook?” He extended his arm and Mason placed the dark brown fake mustache on his hand.
“And you just… kept the mustache?”
“Um, yeah. Just in case I need it.”
“Why would you need a fake mustache now?” Mason walked out of the car, making his way towards Zane.
“Stop asking questions, come on.” He put his hands on Mason’s shoulders and pushed him into the hospital.
The cold air and the quiet atmosphere of the place embraced him. Mason loved hospitals. How clean everything was. How the illumination lit the place just right. How comfortable it felt to be there—anything could happen to him and he’d be okay. How the vending machine—
“Hope we can do this fast. This place scares me,” Zane said.
There were about 5 people in the main lobby, including two receptionists—one of which was Zane’s mother. She had her hair up and wore a white long-sleeved shirt.
Zane walked towards her and rested his elbows on the counter. Mason did the same.
“Hey, mom,” Zane said.
Avani looked up from the computer in front of her.
“Oh, hey!” she said, her eyes gleaming and lines forming between her eyebrows. She tilted her head to the side. “What are you boys doing here? Um, honey, what’s that on your face?” She pointed at the fake mustache.
“I just grew it.” He gave the mustache a little twist. “It’s Mason’s birthday.”
“Right, yes, it is! Come over here, baby.” She grinned at Mason with open arms and gestured for him to come closer. The boy walked over to the other side of the counter, and Avani greeted him with a hug. “Happy birthday, my boy.”
She squeezed him so tight Mason found himself breathless, but not in such a bad way. He loved hugs, after all. Avani let go of it after a while, but still kept an arm around his shoulder.
“So you’re here to get your deathmate test?”
“Yeah,” the boys said in unison. Zane kept playing with his hands.
“Mhm. You know you need a parent with you to do that, right?”
“Yeah, so… I was hoping you could pretend to be my mom?” Mason looked at her with puppy dog eyes. “I mean, adoptive mom,” he corrected, realizing they don’t, at all, look alike. Her and Zane’s skin as dark as umber, and Mason’s as light as sand.
Avani smiled. “I would love to… but I have to work, okay? I’ll tell the doctor to talk to you. Oh, wait, let me get you this thing.” She took a card from the counter and wrote her signature on it. “Tell them I’m letting you in without a parent, okay? I don’t know if it’s possible, but I hope it is. Now sit there, they’ll call you in a second. I’m filling in your data now, alright?”
Mason nodded all along and took the card from her hand. He followed Zane into the waiting area.
He sat with his fingers laced together on top of his legs. His non-stop leg-bounce was now worse than ever. Zane placed himself two seats past his friend so he could lay down on the chair, one leg to the floor and the other over Mason’s trembling ones.
“How do I look?” Zane pointed to his face.
“Why did you bring a mustache?”
“How do I look?” He raised his eyebrows.
“Like a kid with a fake mustache on.”
“Fuck. If they think I’m 21 maybe they’ll let you take the test.”
“You’ll never pass for 21.” Mason laughed.
“I already have the fake ID lenses!” He pointed to his eyes.
Mason looked away, facing the wall. There was a hologram propped near it where the news channel was on.
A picture of Bryan Whittemore was shown and below it, written in upper case with a breaking news title: COLTON DEVENPORT FOUND DEAD IN HIS HOME. BRYAN WHITTEMORE IS A SUSPECT.
He looked young in the photo, around 13 or 14. It was probably from an old ID. Mason was so used to seeing that same picture, after all, the news channel showed it at least 5 times a day.
A loose murderer in D.C was no joke.
“So he’s killed 9 people now.” Zane retracted from his seat, moving his other leg to the ground. “Normally, Agnes’ theories make no sense, but seriously... How the hell did no one see this guy?”
Mason only shrugged, staring blankly at the hologram.
“It’s pathetic really. The police sucks that bad?”
“As his wife has mentioned, Davenport was working for the official search party of Bryan Whittemore,” the reporter on the hologram stated. There were red and blue lights flashing around him—he was probably at the crime scene. Mason recognized one of the buildings behind him. It was near his house. “The MPD is investigating whether the 16-year-old son of Dawson Whittemore was involved with the crime. Locals are quick to affirm he was, although no one’s seen the teenager in over 6 months. In addition to that, tomorrow, on October 13th, Bryan Whittemore turns 17.” He paused for a second. “Please note that he is wanted alive and his situation will be dealt with by the police. The murder of the subject is punishable by death penalty, as of every other crime of this scale.”
Imagine if he ends up being my deathmate, Mason thought of joking, but he also didn’t want to even think about it.
From the corner of the room, a man in a white coat walked in with a clipboard in hand. He had a mustache. A real one.
“Mason Stewart?” he called.
“Here we go.” Zane jumped from his seat and dragged Mason towards the doctor.
✶✶✶
The room was almost blinding, in a way that the boys had to blink significantly in order to adjust to its lighting, filled with white equipment, white walls, and white furniture.
“So, you’re taking your deathmate test, right? I’m Dr. Owens.” He held out a hand for both boys to shake. “I heard you didn’t come in with a parent?”
Zane rushed to reply, “They’re dead.”
Mason widened his eyes. Zane, what the f—
“Oh. I’m so sorry,” Dr. Owens said. And even if Zane seemed to be lying, the doctor wouldn’t doubt him in such a tragic subject.
“No, it’s okay. They died a few years ago. I’m his brother. He’s, um, adopted. I’ve taken care of him since our parent’s car accident,” Zane replied without missing a single beat.
“A car accident?” The doctor asked. He was probably a rich man who’d never had to drive a non-autonomous car in his life.
“Oh, yeah. Our family doesn’t have much money to afford a self-driving car.” That part was true. “It had rained and they didn’t notice how wet the road was.”
Mason was impressed by his friend’s story, but it wasn’t like he didn’t do this often.
“And how old are you, sir?” The probably-rich-doctor asked.
“Just turned 22.” Zane tilted his head up, probably so he could exhibit his mustache. Mason struggled not to burst into laughter, trying his best to keep a straight face.
“Sure. Okay, um, may I have an eye scan on you?” The man opened a drawer in his desk and took out the device.
“Yes, of course,” Zane said.
“I meant him.” The doctor smiled, looking at Mason.
“Oh, sure,” Mason said.
Dr. Owens pressed the eye scanner device against Mason’s eyes and took it off in a second.
The boy’s face and information appeared on the computer screen.
“Mason Devlin Stewart. Born October 13th, 2040,” he read. “Um, your birthday is tomorrow, sir.”
“It’s already past midnight,” Mason said.
“Oh, so you’re that excited, huh?” The doctor stood up. “Okay, come here.”
He led them to another white room, except this one was smaller and had only a chair and a tall white cupboard.
“So, I’m going to take your blood test, then you’ll head over to the room beside this one, right here.” He pointed to his right. “There’s a screen in that room that will show your deathmate’s name and photo. You’ll also get a printed version of it with more information. Do you have any questions?”
Mason shook his head.
“Okay.” The man walked into the room. “Sit here, please.” He pointed at the white chair. There was a metal armrest tray beside it.
Mason did as he was told and extended his arm on the tray. He watched as the doctor put a tight band around his upper arm, squeezing his eyes from the slight pain. Zane stood by his side.
Dr. Owens took out an antiseptic wipe from the cupboard and swept it against Mason’s skin.
Mason’s heart dropped to his feet as he noticed the needle on the doctor’s hand.
It wasn’t like he didn’t expect to get his blood drawn for a blood exam, right?
“This might hurt a little.” The doctor stood by Mason’s extended arm and the boy turned his face to the side, desiring to look at anything other than the mini Jeddah Tower staring right at him.
“Zane, can you hold my hand?” He eyed Zane’s stupid mustache. That could be a good distraction.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of needles.” He laughed, lifting his hand for Mason to hold.
“I’m afraid of needles.”
Mason felt the cold tip of the needle entering his skin. He tightened his grip on Zane’s hand and instead of choosing a place to look at, he closed his eyes.
“Think happy things,” Zane said. “Like when the soda bottle exploded last Saturday and hit the ceiling fan and everyone got wet.”
“That’s not happy.”
“Yes, it is. It’s funny.”
Mason decided to think of how this would be over soon, and, in a while, he’d get to know who his deathmate was. He planned on contacting them as Zane did with his.
The doctor finally removed the needle, cleaning Mason’s arm with another wipe. He placed a cotton pad over the reddened area. “Keep holding this tight against your arm.”
Mason let go of Zane’s hand and did as he was told. He stood up as the doctor walked over to the doorway.
“You can go on to this room now.” The man pointed to his side. “Your deathmate will appear on the screen in a few minutes. I’m not allowed in the room as your deathmate’s identity is of your choice to share. Please note that no one else has access to their information except for you. Their identity is of your privacy,” he said in a single beat and Mason wondered how many times he’d done that speech. He could be a news reporter.
“Can he go in?” Mason pointed at Zane.
“If you want to, yes.”
Mason nodded. “Okay, thank you, sir.”
“Thanks,” Zane said with a wink and finger guns as he directed himself into the room alongside Mason.
The blue shade of the empty screen illuminated their faces the second they walked in. No other lights were on.
There was a projector on the ceiling, two chairs next to a wall, and a device that Mason guessed would print out his deathmate’s information.
“Does it hurt?” Zane tapped Mason’s arm with a finger.
“A little.”
He wasn’t in the mood for small talk, but he didn’t know how much longer it would take until the screen revealed the name he’d long been waiting to know.
In most situations, your deathmate lives in the same state as you—and Mason hoped that was the case for him, unlike Zane, whose deathmate lived in Seattle. Wrong Washington.
Mason planned on contacting them as soon as it was possible. Finding their social media would be the first step. Meeting up and getting to know them, the second.
How long would it take for their deathmate to take the test? Were they as excited and impatient as Mason? Or as unbothered as Zane? Would it be creepy to jump right into their text messages saying ‘hey im mason, ur deathmate :) wanna meet up?’ one hour into their birthday?
The screen lit up with the number 60, then 59, and Mason could only suppose—
“Hey, hey, hey, a countdown,” Zane said, standing up.
Anxiety-inducing much?
His body trembled with anticipation and the back of his neck burned.
“I haven’t wished you a happy birthday yet,” Zane remembered.
Mason rolled his eyes, hoping his friend would understand his gesture as please, don’t.
“So, I would like to propose a toast.” He pretended to hold a glass—pinky up and everything. “First, I wanna say... you... are not so bad.”
“Wow.”
“You know, you’ve got some redeeming qualities and all...”
“Fuck off,” Mason said with a grin, slamming his fist into the other boy’s upper arm.
“Okay, I’m joking. You... are my best friend, and I love you very, very much.” Zane placed both his hands upon Mason’s shoulders.
Mason’s eyesight oscillated between the screen and the boy in front of him. “Do you love me more than Agnes?”
Zane removed the hands. “I’m not getting into that.”
“I know you do.”
“I’m not ranking y’all.” He narrowed his eyes.
“But if you did, I would be first, right?”
“My mom would.”
“Fair,” Mason said. He had his hands inside his pockets now, and one foot tapping the floor impatiently.
Zane glanced at the countdown, there were 15 seconds left.
“Well, continuing with my toast,” he said, and Mason wondered if he was doing this to distract him from his probably-noticeable anxiety. “I wanna wish you the happiest birthday ever, and that whoever this stupid person is”—he pointed at the screen, now at 8 seconds. Only 8 seconds—“I hope they don’t suck. And that they treat you well. And that you have the best year ever.”
He put his arm around Mason and they both stopped to stare at the screen, waiting.
3.
2.
The screen changed from the white background of the countdown to black. Mason’s heartbeat skyrocketed. Suddenly, what felt like years of waiting, seemed like it had passed way too fast. His deathmate would appear on the screen in a second, and after a decade, he still wasn’t ready.
The screen changed to white again, but now there was a picture.
A picture Mason had gotten extremely familiar with in the past 6 months.
He didn’t know his anxiety could get worse, he expected for his body to relax and for his heart to resume beating normally after seeing who his deathmate was, but as he took one glance at the name below the image, the whole world stopped.
He couldn’t do anything but stare at the name, reading it over and over again.
No. There was no way this was—
Bryan Nakada Whittemore.
Bryan Nakada Whittemore, he read again. Bryan. Nakada. Whittemore.
Bryan fucking Whittemore.
And the first thing he could think of was how he had spent all these years protecting someone who seemed to give less of a shit about their life than Mason did about his own.
He’d been protecting nobody.
He’d been living for no one.
No one.