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blood is very hard to clean out, ze finds.
"—and then, uh, i think leafy like, steals dream island... or like she steals the deed to it, and," ze nods like mason can somehow see him over the phone, his friend's words going in one ear and out the other. this was a very bad time for him to call. boxcutter discarded on the floor, bedsheets in a heap, ze frantically tries to quietly yank his blood-stained comforter off his bed as mason rambles on in his ear.
ze is kind of paying attention. kind of. mason, as much as he loves the guy, called at an absolutely fucking abysmal time. he cuts into whatever vague words about pen, eraser, blocky, why were they so fucking gay? to mindlessly ask "so like, all of that cause firey can't design a fucking carousel?" his arm stings as he finally manages to yank the comforter off the small twin bed, bundling around the blood stain and rushing into the bathroom.
"yeah," comes mason's voice over the phone, a bit sheepish. ze listens to him backtrack. "it's, uh, kinda stupid. but it's fun! it's.. it's..." the bathroom door clicks open as the sound of keyboard tapping carries over the phone. "...fuck. wha's that one anime? the uuuuhhj— the really long one?"
ze rifles through his bathroom mirror cabinet with only slightly shaky hands. the blood smears his fingertips. stupid, is the distant thought. "...one piece?" he offers, just a beat too late.
silence from the other end as mason doesn't respond. fuck. he probably noticed. or worse, is suspecting. the laugh ze barks out is nothing short of panicked, and holy shit he is probably making this worse. the half-empty hydrogen peroxide is blessedly cold against his sweaty palm. "i mean— maybe you're talking about like.. bleach? or dragon ball z? they're both pretty long. it's probably one piece, though—"
"—nah, it's one piece. that's the one. battle for dream island is like one piece for gay people." more computer tapping as ze shakily opens the bottle, blindly reaching out for the comforter. "...which you would love. tch. evil faggot."
moment of silence. "pppffssnnnrrrkkk—" ze wheezes as mason giggles with him, bubbles of laughter rising out of his throat. fuck. fuck. "m-man—gggweheheh— okay, fuck you—" the responding snickers are only infectious and make ze laugh harder, and oh god, his chest hurts (and his arm still kinda stings) and—
SPLOOSH. hydrogen peroxide everywhere.
ze blinks.
the bottle flies out of his already weak grasp, splashing all over the fucking mirror and sink. ah. shit. he almost doesnt realize for a second, laughter awkwardly dying down as the mkstake sets in. the sudden dead silence from him makes mason take pause over the phone, air between them going quiet and tense.
"...hey," mason tries, voice quieter, "did you spill something? if— if it's not a good time, y'know, i could always call back—" he tries.
"no!" ze spills before he can think— then immediately backtracks. "n-nononononono, no, i'm just, like... tired." he winces. what the fuck. "iiiiii. um. i just spilled my.. baja blast. and it was really good, so, i'm kinda sad. yeah." he's normally better at lying than this. but today, he's just.. scrambled. something he cannot let mason know.
the line is quiet. "...m—?"
"i'm here, ze."
he hates himself for even thinking to ask. "...thanks."
softly, the sound of typing continues to carry over the phone. ze slumps against the bathroom counter, sliding down, down, down, until the cold tile floor barely registers beneath him. his arm still stings to hell and back. the comforters are dirty from blood and being dragged along the floor in his haste. his carefully constructed front of i'm fine, why the hell do you need to ask? is crumbling in the wake of his friend's stupid voice and stupid sweetness. he wants to choke and die on the lump in his throat.
mason's tongue clicks. "...you can ask me for—" stops. restart, that's too direct. "i mean.. i'll be here for you, man. if you need something—time, space, uhh.. money. kinda.—then you can tell me." the words feel stilted, too raw than they should be. he pushes onwards nonetheless. "...alright?"
"...mm."
"can't hear you."
"mhm."
the sigh of relief mason lets out is pointed away from his microphone. "...alright." typing fills the silence, and it's good enough. "i'm gonna go now, okay? go, like, take a shower. you're probably dirty right now."
ze's scoff of indignity is quieter than mason would like, but he can't complain— as long as the spark's there... "'m not fucking dirty. fuck you."
mason's headphones clatter onto his desk as he snorts. "fuck you too and prove me wrong." he immediately picks them back up, holding one headphone speaker to his ear like an actual phone. "bye. love you."
the response takes a beat too long, ze's faint uncomfortable shuffling coming from the other side. mason falters. "don't tell me that gay homoerotic shit," ze snaps, then immediately follows with, "love you too, man. goodnight."
"goodnight."
≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾
three hours later, ze sits on his bed. he's soaking wet. the only thing moderately dry about him is one arm wrapped tightly in bandages. it seems that boot camp actually did something good for him. his apartment is deafeningly quiet as his shaky hands fumble with a blurry phone screen, opening the camera app.
the photo he sends mason is a mess—he's laying on his bed, hair clearly soaked, a towel beneath his head to keep the uneven nest on his head from ruining his marshalls pillowcase. mason's small typing... from the other end is vaguely reassuring. at least he's there.
> good boyyyy u listened ;)
ze's response comes as easy as breathing.
> FUCK YOU