Frostfire | MxM

Sixteen

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"Is it better to out-monster the monster or to be quietly devoured?"

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Trigger Warning:
This chapter contains depictions of graphic physical violence, assault, and substance use. Please proceed with caution if these themes might be triggering for you.

"Where are you going?" Mason's brows furrow as I slide out of the booth, the urgency in my movements pulling me away from the conversation.

I rub the back of my neck, hoping the tension will ease, but it only seems to knot tighter, digging in deeper like stubborn roots clutching dry earth.

"Forget the train wreck my life's become and how screwed up I am," I say, aiming for calm, but the words come out rough, jagged at the edges. "Isn't that the whole point of coming here?"

Lines of concern carve themselves into Mason's face, his eyes narrowing as he studies me.

"No," he says, his voice steady, unwavering. "We came here to talk this through, to figure out a solution."

"And we really nail it, don't we?" The words lash out before I can stop them, bitter and too sharp. I close my eyes, breathing in the sharp tang of alcohol and desperation hanging in the air, and clench my jaw to keep the rest from spilling out.

"Look, I get it, Mase," I say after a beat, my voice softer but no less strained. "Sharing all these warnings and all these cautionary tales is your way of helping. I know that. But I'm already in too deep." My gaze flicks to a passing waiter, his tray heavy with glasses of something dark and potent. "So, if you don't mind, I'm going to go drink all that good advice into oblivion."

Mason's frown deepens, new lines etching themselves into his forehead like I've crossed some invisible boundary.

"But you don't even drink,"

I shrug, feigning indifference as my hands slip into the pockets of my tailored trousers, fingers curling tightly against the fabric.

"Guess there's a first time for everything." Before he can get another word in, I jerk my chin toward the back of the room, where a group of girls sneak glances our way, their laughter soft but deliberate. "Look, better company's already lining up. Don't waste your night trying to play therapist. Just relax and enjoy yourself. I'll grab something soft and head home."

Mason's bright eyes lock onto mine, scanning for cracks in the façade, for anything to pull me back into whatever intervention he thinks this night is supposed to be.

"Seriously, Mason," I press, my voice quieter now but still edged with frustration. "I just need a breather, that's all. Let it go."

For a moment, he doesn't move, his eyes scanning mine, searching for something—some crack, some opening that might let him get through. But when I don't budge, he exhales, the weight of his disappointment hitting me harder than anything he could've said.

"Fine," he finally complies, his voice low and resigned. "Go ahead. But just know that whatever you're running from? It's not going anywhere. And neither am I."

His words cling to me like static, but I don't let it show. Instead, I plaster on a smile that I know doesn't reach my eyes—a poor imitation of the carefree charm I used to wield so easily—and turn away.

The last thing I want is to burden Mason, who has been nothing but patient and understanding, with my negative energy.

I have no desire to drag anyone else into my somber thoughts, and, truth be told, I'm weary of shouldering them myself. The weight of it has grown too familiar, like a second skin I can't shed.