Boy Trouble GT

Chapter 34

[K Y E ]

The dorm was quiet, the kind of stillness that settled deep in the bones of the walls, stretching through every empty space like it had been waiting to settle there.

Kye sat on the lounge, long legs stretched across the couch, his hoodie sleeves covering his hands as he stared blankly at the television. He wasn't really watching it—the sounds and flashes of color were just background noise, filling the silence that had been pressing down on him for days now.

His head felt too full, yet at the same time, it felt like it was drifting somewhere else entirely, like he was trapped in his own mind, unable to pull himself out of it.

He hadn't moved much. Had barely left the dorm. And Mason— Mason had been avoiding him. Not outright, not obviously, but in a way that Kye felt down to his core.

He didn't push anymore. Didn't try to get Kye to leave the dorm, didn't curl up into his space like he used to, didn't look at him the same way he had before Kye had shut down completely.

And Kye hated it.

He had ruined something—he knew that much. Had taken the one good thing he had and somehow managed to taint it, pull away from it, crush it between his own hands without even meaning to.

Mason had given him space. And space was the last thing Kye wanted. But it was his fault. And he didn't know how to fix it. Didn't know if he even could.

So he sat there, curled up into himself, hollow and exhausted, letting the TV flicker in front of him like he was actually paying attention.

Then—

The front door rattled.
The handle jerked clumsily, like someone was trying to turn it too fast, and Kye's head lifted slightly, brows furrowing.

It wasn't that late—maybe a little past midnight—but Mason was never out this long on a normal night, not without mentioning something about it beforehand.

The door banged open. And then Mason stumbled inside.
Kye's entire body stiffened.

The first thing he noticed was that Mason looked terrible. His normally well-kept curls were a mess, sticking to his forehead, slightly damp with sweat. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes glassy, dazed, but it was the way he wobbled when he took a step inside that made Kye's stomach drop.

Mason was drunk.
Very drunk.
Kye had never seen him like this—not once.

Mason didn't drink like that, usually choosing to stay sober or in control, always the responsible one, the one who never let himself slip too far.

But now? Now he could barely stand.

His legs wavered, his balance completely shot, and he had to grab onto the wall just to steady himself, his fingers gripping the doorframe too tightly, as if he wasn't sure the ground would hold him.

A strange, uneasy feeling settled in Kye's chest, something that felt too much like worry, too much like something he didn't want to acknowledge.

Mason was wrecked, not in the usual drunk, carefree way, not like he had just spent the night laughing and drinking with friends.

No—as he approached closer to the couch, Mason looked like he had been through hell. His cheeks were flushed, but it wasn't just from alcohol—there was something else lingering there, something off, something wrong.

And then Kye noticed the streak of color across his cheek, a soft pink hue smeared over his skin.

At first, he thought it was paint—something stupid from the party, maybe someone messing around, shoving their hands against Mason's face in some drunken game.