Boy Trouble GT

Chapter 36

[KYE]

Kye wasn't used to caring for others. Not like this.

It was usually Mason who stepped in when Kye's own darker moods overshadowed his days—Mason, who, despite being half his size, had a way of dragging Kye out of the deepest of funks with a simple comment or an insistent tug on his hoodie sleeve.

But now, as light filtered hazily through the dorm's thin curtains, Kye found himself in an unfamiliar role: caregiver.

Mason was hungover.

Not just a mild headache or a subtle wave of nausea, but a full-on, sapped-of-energy, can-barely-move sort of hangover that left him looking paler than Kye ever recalled. Mason—**the same tiny, 2-foot human who usually bustled around with unstoppable energy—**was currently wrapped up in a cocoon of blankets on the couch.

A cocoon that now rested squarely in Kye's lap.

Kye sat on the edge of the couch, trying very hard not to jostle Mason too much, arms draped protectively around the smaller form. The room was so quiet that the hum of the dorm's weak heating system sounded impossibly loud, and the leftover pangs of alcohol in the air made Kye's nose twitch with concern.

Mason hadn't stirred much. Even the slightest shift in the blankets provoked only a faint groan or a murmur of complaint. The night before had ended in a haze—Mason stumbling into the dorm, reeking of stale alcohol, cheeks flushed with too much party-time adrenaline. Kye remembered the half-coherent mumbling, the way Mason had collapsed onto the couch without ceremony, curling into himself as if the entire world was too bright, too loud, too painful.

Kye had stayed up, quietly hovering, all awkward limbs and worried frowns. He had fetched water from the human-sized cabinets—nearly crushing a tiny glass in the process—and placed it by Mason's side. He had rummaged for aspirin, cursing under his breath every time he had to crouch or angle his large frame around the dorm's cramped kitchen. It was a labor he didn't mind, not when Mason needed him.

Pressing  his face against Kye's hoodie as though it were the only refuge left in the world. Kye, unsure and anxious, had simply let him. Let him curl up, let him find what comfort he could in a world that was spinning too fast.

Now it was late afternoon, and Mason still hadn't moved. His slender body lay half-draped in blankets, half against Kye's chest, his breath coming in shallow but steady rhythms. He was so small—so fragile-looking—and it made Kye's heart lurch with every shift and murmur.

Kye swallowed hard, running a tentative hand along Mason's shoulder, feeling the chill of his body beneath the hoodie's fabric. He should ask if Mason wanted more water, or maybe a piece of dry toast—something to line his stomach. But each time he opened his mouth, the words caught in his throat, afraid he might shatter the delicate peace that had settled over them.

He hadn't expected to be in this situation: cradling a hungover Mason in the quiet aftermath of a party he didn't even attend. But that was Mason for you—always the social one, always surrounded by friends, always the center of attention. And Kye? Kye was content to avoid crowds, to stay in his oversized clothes, to keep the world at arm's length.

Yet, despite everything—despite the size difference, despite Kye's guarded nature—here they were.

Mason let out a soft sigh, his body shifting a fraction closer, pressing against Kye's stomach. Kye's breath stuttered, torn between the desire to hold him tighter and the instinct to keep still, to not invade what little comfort Mason had found.

The faint flicker of the TV, left on through the day, cast dancing shadows across the dorm. Some late-afternoon rerun or morning infomercial, Kye wasn't really paying attention. He was too busy watching the slow flutter of Mason's eyelids, too busy noticing how Mason's brow pinched whenever the blanket slipped and the cold air touched his skin.