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“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want me to stay.”
“But I do want you to stay,” Corey says with a short laugh, tugging on the hand clasped in his. He’s sitting on the bed, on top of rumpled sheets and the threadbare t-shirt Mason threw at him twenty minutes before.
He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t doing this on purpose, tugging Mason close when he’s all but ready to head downstairs where Derek’s going to be waiting in less than ten minutes according to his three-word text. Corey’s not even dressed. He’d laid there watching as Mason pulled on pants after his shower, lounging in the late morning haze with a hand on his hip above the boxer shorts he’d worn to bed. Mason avoided his gaze at every turn, and very pointedly started rambling every time Corey pulled that lazy smirk he knew Mason liked to lick into. He must have known it too, that this was on purpose. That Corey was trying to distract him, not to stop him from leaving but to make it harder for him to go.
Mason doesn’t resist when Corey pulls him forward until their knees touch. He lifts bare feet from the carpet and crosses his ankles above Mason’s black sneakers. He digs his chin into the army green jacket over his abdomen, then cranes his neck to meet dark brown eyes. Mason stares down with a light frown.
“You said it wasn’t a big deal.”
“It’s not.”
The narrow gaze is a telltale sign he’s not convinced.
Corey laughs again, “It’s not. Promise. This stuff you’re doing with Deaton is important… Derek would probably be annoyed if you decided not to go. His Portuguese is still bad, right?”
Mason’s expression doesn't change. “But…” he prompts.
“But… I still want you to stay.”
Corey’s grown selfish over the years. Has learned to act when his heart rate spikes and the unbearable need to hold Mason’s hand until his lungs expand again has him waggling fingers by his side and whimpering low in his throat.
Anxiety, Mason says it is. But Corey’s not so sure of that. Thinks it’s a symptom of something more shameful, more desperate. Like codependency.
“I can’t, though.” Mason’s hand is still in his, fingers curling tighter in his hold.
Can’t is a strong word, and this decision to leave has cloaked them both in heavy yet unvoiced disquiet for over a month, but it bears none of the truth behind why he won't stay. He’d much rather Mason say he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to give up working with Deaton, he doesn’t want to miss out on learning first-hand all the things Deaton’s been helping him discover, he doesn’t want to give up this chance to be of real, tangible help.
“You can’t, or…” Corey grins, coaxing.
Mason leans down and Corey’s eyelids flutter closed when their lips meet.
“I don’t want to.”
It makes his heart leap into a steady yet violent pounding against his ribcage, and his fingers twitch around Mason’s, but he keeps his breaths even, and his eyes closed. His lungs burn but he forces his lips into a wide grin, “That’s better.”
Because it is. That Mason wants to go, even if it means spending three weeks in Brazil with only a Druid and werewolf as company, speaking a language he’s only spent one month learning, and possibly facing danger in as much the same ways as he has in Beacon Hills.
“Maybe you should keep your eyes closed until I leave.”
Corey blinks up at him to see he’s bitten into his lip. The intention wasn’t to make it impossible for him, so Corey tries to maintain the smile, but Mason leans down and kisses him again, doesn’t lick into his mouth but stays pressed to his lips longer. Corey sags and relaxes into it, only tightens his crossed ankles minutely before he’s pressing back and angling his head. He’s done well, he thinks, not to drag Mason back into bed, not to coax him out of his clothes. He’s done well not to tell him he won’t survive watching him go. He’s done well, but he loses some control and his voice breaks, “Keep them closed why? So you won’t have to see me cry?”
Mason nudges his feet free from Corey’s, but doesn’t untangle their hands. “So you’ll stop looking at me like that.”
He rises languidly when Mason pulls him to stand, but wraps arms around him immediately and locks his chin into place over his shoulder.
“Cor, you’ll be fine. But this is so inefficient. I should probably remind you only one of us would survive a tumble down the stairs.”
“Yeah, you. I’d break your fall.”
Mason’s short chuckle is deep, rumbles through both their chests, but he pitches his voice higher when he speaks, “Yeah, you would.”
“Come on,” Corey says, eyes squeezed shut and arms tight around Mason’s middle, “before I get your jacket wet.”
They head downstairs and it’s only when the doorbell rings and Derek stutters at the sight of them that they remember one of them is still not dressed. Corey flushes but ignores every instinct to hide in favour of sinking further into Mason’s embrace.
“Oh,” Mason fumbles, rushing to explain the lack of clothes to Derek through his dark aviators, “forgot about the… you know…”
“Public decency laws?”
“I’m inside…” Corey counters, still wrapped around Mason.
Derek huffs. “Just give me the bag. Braeden will probably drive off in three minutes so hurry up.”
“He’s right, I should go.”
“I know. One last hug.”
He says that even though he hasn’t let go since they were upstairs. Even though he couldn’t squeeze much tighter if he tried. He runs the tip of his nose along Mason’s neck and up to his ear, then nips lightly at the lobe.
“Promise me you’ll stay safe. Stay away from anything with claws. Or fangs.”
“Or billowing capes. Flaming torsos. Designer canes. ”
“I’m serious.”
“Me too. Derek’s pretty good at protecting people. I think we’ll be all right.”
Letting go is a process, a series of slow jerks between them before they’re standing two feet apart.
“You’ll text, right?”
“When I can.”
Corey pouts and bites his cheek, and Mason steps through the door laughing.
“I’m kidding. Everyday. Selfies, too.”
“Promise?”
Mason holds up his pinky and tips his head down. Corey latches on to it swiftly, uses the leverage to tug their hands to his chest.
“I miss you already.”
“Love you, too, man.”
He scoffs at that, then lets go. He watches from the slightly ajar door as Mason climbs into the back of the van, behind Braeden whose aviators cover half her face. She flashes teeth at Corey and he nearly slams the door out of embarrassment, remembering his unclad state. He keeps peeping though, and sees Mason peering out the window to laugh at him. Corey smiles back. His heart hasn’t stopped racing since his limbs unwound themselves from Mason but he waves with the same hand that was once clasped around colder ones and watches them go.