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Mason notices Conor’s absence much faster than he’d be willing to admit.
There’s nearly a dozen people in the room and yet, without him, it feels noticeably emptier. People’s words don’t quite meet Mason’s ears the same way, none holding the same weight as they might otherwise.
He finds Conor exactly where he expects him to be: on the balcony. He’s facing out towards the city, leaning on the railing, wind sweeping his grown out hair off to one side. He looks small out there— he looks small always, but especially like this. Tucked against the skyline, limbs pulled close to his body like he’s hiding himself away.
Mason excuses himself without saying much; his other bandmates are both embroiled in a conversation with some friends, one Mason lost the plot to several minutes ago. He doubts they mind his leaving.
The night air is cold— not terribly, just enough to settle persistently against Mason’s skin. He doesn’t mind. Not when he came out here for this. For him.
“What’s brewing in that head of yours?” Mason asks, stepping to stand beside him. Conor glances up at him, looking a little out of it, but a small smile still finds his face.
“Not much, to be honest,” he answers. His eyes drop back to the city, and Mason misses the feeling of his gaze the moment it’s gone. “Not really feeling the socialization today, I guess.”
Mason hums, “Want me to leave you alone?”
“No,” Conor says quickly, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “No, you’re—it’s…”
He trails off. Loses his courage. His lips purse together and Mason wants to reach up and pry them open so he can just say what he means. He’s what? Different? An exception? Someone Conor wants around? Whatever the answer, Mason wants to hear it, and he feels greedy for craving it so badly, so entirely.
The commotion inside is muffled from out here, leaving them alone in a sea of white noise from the city below. If he pays attention, he can zone in on Conor’s breathing. If he lets himself pretend, he can almost hear Conor’s heartbeat.
The breeze picks up and Conor visibly shivers. He’s wearing only a T-shirt. Mason doesn’t even think twice before he’s sliding his jacket off and draping it over Conor’s shoulders. He goes to object, but Mason’s already shaking his head, already tucking the collar around his neck so the warmth bleeds in a bit faster.
“..Thanks,” is all Conor says, soft, so quiet that the wind could’ve carried it away.
Mason just smiles. He nudges Conor’s arm with his own and then leaves it there, a point of contact, just to have it. He watches Conor swallow, a faint bob in his throat, as the corner of his mouth twitches up in a smile.
Perhaps Mason should feel bad for staring, but he’s always been one to enjoy admiring a pretty picture. Eyeliner clings to Conor’s waterline, even though most of it has rubbed off. His lips are chapped, maybe a little bitten, as if he’s been worrying them away with his teeth. His hair curls around his ears, which have gotten pinker since Mason’s arrival— whether it’s from the cold, or his presence, Mason isn’t sure. He knows which he wants it to be, though, selfishly.
Conor looks at him again, but there’s something in his eyes that wasn’t there before. Something deeply vulnerable— a question, one Mason doubts he could answer with words. Maybe he should stop trying.
They’ve had moments like this before, the two of them. Moments of quiet longing covered by the night sky. Moments where Mason struggles to know how to voice the things he feels. Moments where Mason feels so much that it’s easier to flee, or pretend like it’s all some joke. He doesn’t care to do that, now— he doesn’t want to.
Instead, his hand settles on Conor’s face. His cheek is cold against Mason’s palm and Conor leans into his touch, just a little, just enough to give Mason the courage to take the leap.
He trails his hand down, thumb tracing the sharp edge of Conor’s jaw, urging his head to tilt up. And Mason kisses him. And it means everything.
It’s slow and unsure at first. Mason can feel his heartbeat rattling in his skull, especially as Conor stiffens against him, but then it shifts, and Mason knows he made the right choice. Conor relaxes, easing against him like the tides of the ocean against a sandy shore. Mason has to bow his head to kiss him deeper because of the height difference, but it’s worth it.
The breeze surges again and Conor presses closer, trembling hands settling on Mason’s chest, sliding up until his arms can loop around his neck. Mason holds his head still with his hand so he can control the pace, keeping it slow but more confident as the seconds tick. It’s sweet. Pleasant. It feels like a taste of what could be, merely a prologue.
When Mason pulls away, Conor’s eyes are wide and his mouth parted, his warm breath a drastic juxtaposition to the somewhat icy air.
“Wow,” Conor mutters, and Mason nearly rolls his eyes.
“Wow,” he echoes, a hand settling on Conor’s waist just to pinch him there, and he jerks from the contact.
“Hey!” He lightly shoves at Mason’s chest but doesn't move further away. Instead, he turns back to the skyline and further pulls Mason’s coat around his body, like he’s trying to lock the warmth in around his form.
He looks especially small like this, tucked carefully in Mason’s jacket, lips pink and cheeks pinker. Conor leans into Mason’s side and doesn’t say another word, and the moment stretches.
Seconds pass, and then minutes, and Mason feels lighter somehow. Even with the weight pressed against him, even with the persistently chilled air, even with the silence that to a lot of people might feel burdensome. To Mason, it all feels right.