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I’m helpless to turn away and bolt.
Because the second he starts singing…
Any speck of delusion I had left that my time away from him somehow cured me, is gone. Disintegrated. Turning my mouth to ash in the process.
Mason…
I’ve heard him sing before. Of course I have. He’s been singing to whatever’s playing since we were kids, be it in the car on the way to the movies or Comic Con, or belting out to the music playing from our boombox and, later, stereo.
He was rarely serious when he’d do this, especially as we got older and he grew more self-conscious about it.
But I remember what my dad said when we were kids.
Remember what he told me Gavin said, about getting him vocal lessons. As far as I know, he never went for it.
“It’s just for fun,” he’d told me. Just like he said about guitar, with a careless shrug of his shoulder before he changed the subject.
Now, I can’t help but furrow my brows as I listen to the voice crooning into the shockingly quiet room. I can’t imagine it’s an easy song to sing, given how breathy the beginning is—but what the fuck do I know, other than I most definitely would be flat if I tried.
I just know he sounds good.
Perfect.
And fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m so screwed.
I’m also too far away.
Finally, finally, there’s a break in the crowd where I reach one of the columns in the middle of the dense space, just as the strumming stops, making way for the chorus.
His eyes are closed, hand fisting the mic stand as he leans into the melody—the words—mastering them as if they were made for him. The light catches on something silver looped through his lip, and?—
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He pierced his lip.
Got some more ink, too, from what I can see. When did he do all that? He never said anything…
A guitar is swung behind him, and a glance to his right shows a tall, dark-haired unfamiliar guy I assume is Shawn strumming an acoustic. Behind them, Waylon sits behind a drum set, neck craned toward the mic, as he harmonizes in the background.
Since when the fuck does he sing??
Mason’s voice trails, and then his eyes open with a sort of fierce determination that pummels me as he sings about seasons changing and waves crashing and stars falling…
Where his voice was high and breathy and perfectly controlled before, there’s a rougher, reckless sort of gravel to it now, like it’s teasing what’s to come. Like a bow pulled taut, primed to release.
His pierced lip curves wickedly as he strokes the mic stand in a way that should be illegal, head bowed like he’s fucking worshiping the thing. And hell if I don’t want to kneel at his feet.
By a quick glance at the surrounding awed faces, I’m likely not the only one. And while a part of me absolutely abhors the fact they get to see him like this, most of me is just…
Proud.
And completely fucking dumbstruck.
Mason straightens, pale blue eyes sparkling as he vows to be there through it all, even if it means going to Heaven.
It demolishes me, and yet I can’t look away.
