Frostfire | MxM

Fourteen

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"Stay away from the ones you love too much. Those are the ones who will kill you."

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"Mason?" I blink, my voice unsteady, betraying the jolt in my chest. "What are you doing here?"

Even with his beanie pulled low and stray strands of hair brushing against his forehead, the furrow between his brows is unmistakable, deepening as his gaze sweeps over the mess in front of him.

"You weren't at the headcount, so Coach sent me to find you." Mason's voice drops, each word laced with restrained frustration as his eyes harden, fixing on Gabriel like a silent accusation. "What the hell are you doing here... with him?"

I yank my chin from Gabriel's grasp, but the ghost of his touch lingers on my skin, a faint, buzzing reminder of his intrusion. Rising feels like dragging myself against invisible chains—my muscles lock up as if every ounce of stress has turned to stone.

"Nothing." The word slips out, flat and brittle.

I wince inwardly, acutely aware of how hollow my response sounds—like a flimsy shield that won't hold up against Mason's scrutiny.

I know the sensible thing is to explain, to give him something, anything, that might bridge the sudden gap between us, but embarrassment clamps down on my words, leaving my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth. It's ridiculous how the insecurities I thought I buried resurface, dragging with them every whisper of doubt I've ever tried to ignore. If there's anyone I can trust, it's Mason.

But right now, under his gaze, sharp and unyielding, he feels less like the friend I know and more like a stranger judging me from behind a mask. The concern that had softened his features moments before is gone, replaced by something guarded and distant.

"This doesn't look like nothing to me," Mason remarks, gesturing toward the bloodstained handkerchiefs piled in the hamper by the bed. He steps further into the room, his posture shifting to a more confrontational stance as he turns his attention to Gabriel. "I always thought you were the type to throw punches, not clean up after them."

I sense Mason's protective instinct flaring, ready to spring into action, but I'm caught in the crossfire, desperate to diffuse the situation without revealing too much.

Gabriel doesn't seem remotely impressed by Mason's attitude; if anything, the fleeting, wry smile that touches his lips hints at amusement. Half-seated against the nightstand with his arms crossed, he leans back slightly, making no effort to conceal his contempt.

"Relax, Hargrave," Gabriel drawls, his voice dripping with indifference. "I didn't hurt him."

"As if I'm going to believe a single word out of your mouth," Mason scoffs, a bitter laugh escaping him as his expression twists in disapproval. "I thought we agreed to cut each other some slack this season and avoid unnecessary drama."

"Unnecessary drama?" Gabriel echoes, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You're the one who barges in here, acting all scandalized like you just stumbled upon a murder scene."

"It might as well turn into one," Mason mutters, the click of his tongue punctuating his disapproval. "Anyone would react the same if they walked in and saw their friend's face covered in blood. But I guess expecting you to understand basic human responses is too much to ask from someone who clearly lacks integrity."

Gabriel shrugs, his expression unchanging, as if Mason's words are nothing more than white noise—an echo of something he's heard countless times before and brushes off with practiced ease.